DEAD   SELVES 


BY  MISS  MAGRUDER 
AT  ANCHOR 

AND 

HONORED  IN  THE  BREACH 

lamo.     Paper,  50  cents 
Cloth,  $1.00 


DEAD  SELVES 

BY    JULIA     MAGRUDER^ 

AUTHOR    OF   "  THE    PRINCESS    SONIA,"    "  AT  ANCHOR," 
"  HONORED    IN    THE    BREACH."     ETC. 


I  hold  it  truth  with  him  who  sings, 
To  one  clear  harp,  in  divers  tones, 
Tliat  men  may  rise  on  stepping-stones 

Of  their  dead  selves  to  higher  things 

TENNYSON 


PHILADELPHIA 

J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT   COMPANY 

MDCCCXCVIII 


PS 


COPYRIGHT,  1897, 

BY 

].  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY. 


TO 

MY  MOTHER, 

WITH    FAITH    AND    HOPE    AND    LOVE 


DEAD    SELVES 


WHY  not  marry  Mrs.  Gwyn  ? 
It  was  perhaps  for  the  hundredth  time 
that  Duncan  Fraser  asked  himself  this  question, 
and  answered  it.  The  first  time,  the  answer 
had  come,  prompt  and  final  as  a  trip-hammer. 
Now,  it  was  as  prompt  as  ever,  but  not  as  final. 
He  had  not  forgotten  the  reasons  against  this 
marriage, — these  were  not  to  be  lost  sight  of 
for  an  instant, — but  the  reasons  in  its  favor  had 
gained  immense  weight  with  him,  between  the 
first  and  the  hundredth  time  of  asking. 

The  chief  of  these  latter  reasons  was  that 
Mrs.  Gwyn  was  very  rich ;  not  rich  as  some 
men  count  richness,  but  she  was  the  possessor, 
by  inheritance  from  her  husband,  of  a  colossal 
fortune,  and  it  was  nothing  less  than  a  colossal 
fortune  which  Fraser  needed  for  the  accom 
plishment  of  the  end  and  ambition  of  his  life, — a 
thing  far  dearer  to  him  than  love,  or  personal 

5 


6  DEAD   SELVES. 

delight,  or  any  other  feeling  which  had  ever 
animated  him. 

Besides  being  rich,  Mrs.  Gwyn  was  young, 
and  she  was  very  beautiful.  The  latter  consid 
erations,  however,  influenced  Fraser  but  little. 
The  money  was  the  thing.  He  had  years  ago 
embarked  upon  a  career  of  daring  scientific  ex 
periment.  Having  a  good  fortune  himself,  he 
had  spent  it  freely  for  the  advancement  of  his 
ends,  but  after  having  built  a  magnificent  labor 
atory  and  having  scoured  the  earth  for  instru 
ments  and  appliances  for  its  equipment,  he  was 
beginning  to  feel  the  pinch  of  want  of  money, 
and  to  face  the  intolerable  possibility  of  having 
to  call  a  halt  upon  himself,  just  when  he  had 
gone  far  enough  to  make  it  imperative  to  go 
farther.  He  had  great  faith  in  himself,  in  his 
power  to  make  money  or  to  accomplish  any 
other  end  to  which  he  might  set  himself,  but, 
in  this  instance,  time  was  lacking.  If  he  paused 
to  turn  aside  and  make  the  money  that  he 
needed,  too  much  valuable  time  would  be 
wasted,  too  precious  an  opportunity  would  be 
left  to  others.  He  wanted  the  money  at  once, 
and  he  wanted  it  as  he  had  never  wanted  any 
thing  before. 

Fraser  was  accustomed  to  dealing  honestly 


DEAD  SELVES.  7 

with  himself,  and  he  did  not  deny  that  personal 
ambition  entered  somewhat  into  his  schemes. 
He  knew,  however,  that  this  was  not  the  chief 
element.  He  had  the  keen  instinct  of  delight 
in  science  for  its  own  sake,  and  he  had  also  a 
devout  longing  to  succeed,  because  such  success 
would  result  in  benefit  to  his  fellow-men.  He 
had  a  great  deal  of  this  feeling  of  abstract 
altruism,  though  he  had  few  warm  personal  ties 
or  affections;  indeed,  there  was  but  one  of 
these  which  was  very  marked  in  him,  and  that 
was  for  his  mother,  whom  he  respected  as  much 
as  he  loved.  She,  on  her  part,  had  concentrated 
her  strong  nature  on  this  only  child  and  loved 
him  with  intensity,  though  she  did  not  hesitate, 
upon  occasion,  to  criticise  and  even  to  reprimand 
him,  as  if  he  had  been  still  a  boy.  No  one  felt 
more  than  she  the  powerful  personal  magnetism 
which  all  who  came  in  contact  with  Fraser  ac 
knowledged  in  him.  If  he  gave  his  friendship 
to  few,  there  were  many  who  offered  him  theirs, 
and  even  those  who  disliked  or  were  jealous  of 
him  rarely  withheld  their  tribute  to  the  person 
ality  of  the  man.  He  was  well  known  in  New 
York  as  a  serious  worker  in  science,  whose  in 
vestigations  were  important  and  promised  great 
results ;  but  in  the  little  town  of  Brockett,  where 


8  DEAD   SELVES. 

he  had  built  his  laboratory,  he  was,  of  course, 
an  even  more  conspicuous  figure,  and  it  was  in 
this  little  town  that  Mrs.  Gwyn  resided,  or 
rather  in  a  sort  of  castle  on  the  outskirts  of  it. 

Why  not  marry  Mrs.  Gwyn  ? 

The  reasons  against  such  a  course  had,  at  first, 
seemed  to  Fraser  so  supreme,  so  sufficient,  so 
absolute,  that  a  second's  consideration  had 
caused  him  to  dismiss  the  idea  from  his  mind 
with  decision  and  repulsion, — such  repulsion  as 
he  had  never  known  for  a  woman  before.  There 
was,  indeed,  a  hideous  fact  about  Mrs.  Gwyn, 
which  so  eclipsed  her  beauty  that  that  was  worse 
than  nothing  to  Fraser,  and  for  a  while  it  had 
eclipsed  also  the  advantages  of  becoming  the 
sharer  of  her  fortune.  It  had  been  a  total 
eclipse,  but  recently  a  line  of  light  had  seemed 
to  penetrate  the  darkness,  almost  without  his 
being  conscious  of  it.  Her  beauty,  her  youth, 
her  charm,  her  self,  were  as  insignificant  to  him 
as  ever,  but  her  money  had  become  more  impor 
tant  and,  somehow,  less  impossible  to  him  than 
it  had  seemed  to  be  at  first. 

The  ugly  fact  about  Mrs.  Gwyn  was  this.  She 
had  married  a  man  feeble  in  mind  and  con 
temptible  in  body,  had  been  his  wife  for  two 
years,  and  was  the  mother  of  his  imbecile  child. 


DEAD   SELVES.  9 

No  one  knew  exactly  how  it  had  come  about. 
He  had  met  and  married  her  somewhere  in  the 
country  and  had  brought  her  home  to  the  palace 
which  his  father  had  built  and  left  to  him. 
There,  for  two  years,  she  had  lived,  in  lavish 
magnificence,  as  his  wife,  and  there  the  child 
had  been  born. 

No  friend  of  the  family  had  even  seen  this 
child,  and  it  had  been  quickly  sent  off  to  an 
asylum,  no  one  wondering  at  the  fact  that  its 
beautiful  mother  wanted  it  out  of  her  sight.  It 
was  bad  enough  for  her  to  have  to  see  its  father 
growing  mentally  and  physically  weaker  every 
day  and  spending  most  of  his  time  in  sleep ;  for 
even  since  their  marriage  his  degeneration  had 
been  rapid.  His  father  having  died  suddenly 
without  a  will,  he  had  been  the  only  heir  to  that 
great  fortune,  having  just  mind  enough  to  escape 
being  judged  non  compos.  It  had  been  hoped, 
by  those  who  took  any  interest  in  him,  that  his 
wife  would  prove  intelligent  enough  and  have 
sufficient  control  over  him  to  prevent  the  waste 
of  his  fortune,  and  this  hope  had  been  realized, 
for  Rhoda,  in  spite  of  her  inexperience,  proved 
herself  admirably  sensible  and  judicious,  and 
so  managed  his  affairs  that,  at  his  death,  his 
great  fortune  was  left  intact.  It  then  became 


io  DEAD   SELVES. 

known  that,  by  will,  he  had  left  her  his  sole 
heir. 

When  the  grand  funeral  was  over,  and  Rhoda, 
in  her  widow's  weeds,  had  followed  him  to  his 
grave  and  left  him  there, — a  body,  all  that  he 
had  ever  been  ! — the  world  had  only  good  words 
to  say  of  her.  She  had  been  a  faithful  wife  to 
him,  they  said,  and  had  made  every  effort  to 
control  him  for  his  own  good,  if  to  elevate  him 
was  impossible.  She  had,  moreover,  never 
given  any  occasion  for  gossip  as  to  her  personal 
conduct,  and,  if  she  spent  money  lavishly  and 
dressed  extravagantly,  she  had  a  right  to  receive 
the  price  for  which  she  had  sold  herself.  No  one 
thought  of  considering  it  anything  but  a  bar 
gain.  At  least  her  name  had  never  been 
coupled  with  that  of  any  other  man  than  her 
husband,  and  the  world  gave  her  due  credit  for 
that. 

Fraser,  however,  hearing  this  tribute  paid 
her,  from  time  to  time,  was  conscious  of  a  sharp 
mental  sneer.  Small  credit  to  her  for  that,  he 
thought,  for  where  was  there  a  man  so  low  as  to 
be  willing  to  succeed  Fred  Gwyn  in  the  favors 
of  Rhoda,  his  wife?  The  very  suggestion  of 
such  a  thing  was  abhorrent  to  him. 

So  when,  in  the  sort  of  frenzy  which  at  times 


DEAD   SELVES.  n 

beset  him  at  the  crucial  need  of  money,  he 
asked  himself  why  he  should  not  marry  Mrs. 
Gwyn,  this  hideous  fact  in  her  past  history  had 
been  the  answer  to  the  question. 


II 


THE  weather  was  perfect, — a  warm  noonday 
in  early  May,  which  gave  the  first  fore 
taste  of  summer.  Fraser,  having  occasion  to 
go  from  Brockett  to  New  York,  had  decided  to 
take  the  boat  instead  of  the  train,  on  account 
of  the  rather  oppressive  heat,  and  Mrs.  Gwyn, 
being  in  the  same  case,  had,  for  the  same  rea 
son,  come  to  the  same  decision.  Others,  ap 
parently,  had  not  been  so  influenced,  for  the 
company  on  the  boat  was  small,  so  that  each 
passenger  could  be  clearly  seen  and  individual 
ized  by  the  others. 

Fraser,  however,  who  had  taken  a  seat  alone, 
on  the  shady  side  of  the  deck,  was  too  self-ab 
sorbed  to  look  about  him  much,  and  for  some 
time  after  the  boat  had  started,  he  sat  lost  in 
moody  and  despondent  thoughts,  which  now 
and  then  were  pierced  by  exhilarating  and  ex 
citing  ones.  The  situation  was  this.  He  had 
reached,  in  his  work,  a  point  where  he  saw  more 
brilliant  possibilities  looming  up  than  he  had 
ever  seen  before,  but  the  enormous  sum  of 

12 


DEAD   SELVES.  13 

money  which  it  would  require  to  follow  out 
that  line,  and  the  wretchedly  low  ebb  of  his 
own  fortune,  made  him  feel  a  sense  of  being 
crushed  and  stifled.  He  had  reached,  in  pos- 
sibility*at  least,  a  hitherto  unimagined  height, 
and  he  saw  also  the  possibility  of  a  fall  such  as 
he  had  never  before  had  cause  to  fear.  All  that 
was  required,  to  keep  him  on  that  height  and 
to  save  him  from  that  fall,  was  money,  and  the 
poignant  need  of  it  stung  his  consciousness  like 
a  whip-lash. 

He  winced  visibly,  turning  in  his  seat.  As 
he  did  so,  his  eyes  fell  upon  the  face  and  figure 
of  Mrs.  Gwyn,  sitting  a  little  distance  off. 

Once  more  he  asked  himself  that  question, 
and  at  the  same  moment  Mrs.  Gwyn  acknowl 
edged  his  presence  with  a  grave  but  friendly 
bow. 

He  hesitated  one  instant ;  then  he  got  up  and 
moved  to  a  seat  at  her  side. 

"  Good-morning,"  he  said,  raising  his  hat. 
As  he  did  so,  he  remembered  that  he  had  once 
told  himself  that  this  was  the  only  woman  he 
had  ever  seen  who  made  him  feel  an  inward 
protest  against  this  act  of  homage. 

"  Beautiful  weather,  is  it  not  ?"  he  said.  "  It 
makes  one  wonder  why  any  one  should  prefer 


i4  DEAD   SELVES. 

the  train  to  this, — any  one  who  is  not  pressed 
for  time,  at  least." 

"  I  had  supposed  that  you  were  always  of  that 
number, ' '  said  Mrs.  Gwyn,  in  a  low,  rich  voice. 
"You  seem  to  me  the  busiest  man  I  have  ever 
known,  and  therefore  the  most  fortunate." 

He  fancied  a  shade  of  wistfulness  in  her  tones, 
as  she  said  this,  but  her  voice  was  so  low  and 
even  that  it  did  not  betray  much  feeling  of  any 
kind.  An  excellent  voice  indeed,  Fraser  re 
flected,  and  her  manner  and  appearance  agreed 
with  it. 

Her  husband  had  been  dead  two  years,  and 
although  she  still  wore  black,  it  was  not  mourn 
ing.  To-day,  indeed,  a  decided  change  was 
visible  in  her  dress,  though  there  was  no  color 
about  it,  except  a  bunch  of  cream- colored  roses 
on  her  breast.  Fraser  could  not  tell  what  the 
indefinable  change  was,  but  her  costume  was 
certainly  charming,  and  she  looked  distinctly 
girlish,  in  a  hat  which  shaded  her  face  and  a 
light  transparent  veil. 

"The  busiest  man  may  be  the  least  fortu 
nate,"  he  said,  in  answer  to  her  last  words,  "  if 
he  finds  himself  thwarted  in  his  objects  by  the 
impotence  that  comes  from  a  lack  of  means  to 
carry  them  out." 


DEAD   SELVES.  15 

"What  sort  of  means?"  she  said.  "Influ 
ence,  opportunity,  money,  or  what?" 

"Money,"  he  said,  brusquely.  "Influence 
I  do  not  want,  and  opportunity  is  upon  me  in  a 
flood.  It  is  money  that  I  want. " 

"  Trfen  let  me  invest  in  your  schemes,"  she 
said,  and,  although  she  spoke  quietly,  he  could 
see  the  color  deepening  under  her  veil.  "  I 
have  been  to  your  laboratory  often  enough  to 
give  me  a  little  insight  into  what  you  are  trying 
to  do,  and  I've  been  groping  about  rather  help 
lessly  of  late,  trying  to  find  some  way  in  which 
I  could  do  something  really  availing  with  my 
money.  Let  me  take  a  lot  of  stock  in  these 
schemes  of  yours." 

Fraser  smiled  and  shook  his  head,  but  there 
came  a  certain  glow  into  his  heart,  at  the  very 
thought  of  what  was  offered  him. 

' '  There  is  no  stock  to  take, "  he  said .  "  Stock 
companies  clamor  for  results,  and  any  such  con 
dition  would  harass  me  beyond  endurance,  even 
if  I  could  get  any  rational  business-man  to  put 
up  money  on  such  wild  dreams  as  mine, — for 
wild  dreams,  of  course,  they  would  appear  to 
them." 

"  To  you,  however,  they  are  solid  and  reason 
able,  and  I  am  willing  to  take  your  judgment. 


1 6  DEAD   SELVES. 

Please  let  me  give,  lend,  or  invest  what  money 
you  want  for  this  purpose.  You  know  how 
really  inconveniently  rich  I  am." 

Again,  through  those  even  tones,  there 
penetrated  a  certain  feeling,  and  this  time 
he  construed  it  to  mean  protest  or  resent 
ment. 

"I  tell  you  this,"  she  went  on,  as  if  apolo 
getically,  "  to  show  you  that  you  need  not 
hesitate  to  take  me  at  my  word.  I  used  to 
think  that  I  could  spend  any  amount  of  money, 
and  I  suppose  I've  been  extravagant  enough; 
at  least  I've  tried  to  be !  But  to  spend  more 
than  a  certain  sum,  one  must  exercise  both 
energy  and  inventiveness,  and  I  have  not  a  great 
deal  of  either,  I  imagine.  My  money  is  ac 
cumulating  tremendously.  Why  should  it  ? 
There  is  no  one  to  use  or  enjoy  it.  That 
thought  has  troubled  me  seriously  of  late,  and 
I  wish  you  would  relieve  me  of  this  burden,  by 
investing  a  lot  of  it  in  your  work.  Either  it 
will  do  good  or  it  will  not.  In  the  former  case, 
all  is  right.  In  the  latter,  no  harm  is  done,  for 
I  shall  not  miss  it." 

"But  surely,"  said  Fraser,  looking  at  her 
wonderingly,  "you  can  give  it  away." 

"I  do,  some  of  it,  but  I  have  no  interest  in 


DEAD   SELVES.  17 

organized  charities.  I  doubt  if  they  do  any 
good,  and  I  am  not  even  sure  that  I  care  much. 
I  am  not  very  large-hearted,  I  fancy." 

"But  there  are  personal  cases.  You  must 
have  relatives  and  friends. ' ' 

"  I  nave  some  relatives,  and  perhaps  friends 
too,  and  I  have  been  generous  to  them,  or  so 
they  tell  me ;  but  one  does  not  give  souvenirs 
at  the  rate  of  tens  of  thousands  and  hundreds 
of  thousands  !  At  any  rate,  I  have  not  felt  like 
doing  that.  As  I  said,  however,  I  don't  think 
my  heart  is  very  big." 

"  I  fear  it  would  not  be  your  heart  that  would 
be  at  fault  if  you  followed  your  inclinations 
now,"  said  Fraser,  smiling.  "Any  judicious 
man  would  tell  you  that  it  was  rank  folly  to 
invest  in  my  schemes." 

"I  don't  think  I  care  for  the  opinion  of 
judicious  men.  I  do  not  aim  at  being  wise.  I 
like  to  indulge  myself,  and  it  isn't  often  that  I 
find  anything  which  I  want  so  much  to  do  as 
this.  I  am  too  ignorant  to  understand  your 
ideas  and  efforts,  of  course ;  but  in  going  with 
people  over  your  laboratory,  and  in  hearing  you 
now  and  then  explain  a  little,  when  there  was 
some  one  who  seemed  capable  of  taking  it  in,  I 
have  been  interested  by  the  tremendousness  of 


1 8  DEAD   SELVES. 

your  undertakings.  It  has  seemed  to  me  that 
my  mind  had  never  stretched  to  so  big  a  thought 
before.  This  attracts  and  interests  me.  I 
should  like  to  have  a  part  in  a  thing  so  big.  It 
seems  to  give  me  a  wider  breathing-space.  In 
deed,"  she  added,  "so  greatly  should  I  like 
to  have  a  share  in  this  enterprise  of  yours  that, 
if  I  could,  I'd  force  you  to  let  me  have  my 
way. ' ' 

She  smiled,  as  she  said  it,  but  he  did  not 
return  her  smile.  He  was  thinking  intently. 
Between  his  slightly  contracted  lids,  his  eyes 
shone.  The  next  instant,  however,  he  seemed 
to  throw  off  some  inward  suggestion,  with  a 
hasty  shrug,  and  said,  as  if  mockingly : 

"  What  a  fruitless  and  meaningless  talk  we 
are  having !  Of  course  you  could  not  do  a 
thing  like  this.  There  is  absolutely  no  way. 
The  result  is,  on  the  face  of  it,  too  uncertain 
(though  /believe  in  it  as  I  believe  in  nothing 
else  !)  to  allow  of  its  being  considered  as  an  in 
vestment.  No,  you  will  find  other  and  more 
amusing  ways  of  spending  your  money.  I 
have  just  heard  of  your  purchase  of  a  house  in 
New  York,  and  I  am  told  that  you  will  occupy 
it  next  winter." 

"  That  is  a  mistake.    A  fancy  seized  me  when 


DEAD   SELVES.  19 

I  heard  that  that  house  was  in  the  market,  and 
I  telegraphed  my  agent  to  buy  it.  He  has 
done  so,  but  I  shall  not  go  to  New  York  to 
live." 

"Whfnot?" 

"Because  of  a  good  reason  which  came  to 
me  as  an  after-thought.  I  bought  that  house 
(which,  years  ago,  as  a  country  girl,  sight-see 
ing,  I  had  gazed  at,  in  gaping  admiration,  on 
the  occasion  of  my  only  visit  to  New  York  !) 
and  I  thought  I  would  spend  this  summer  in 
Europe,  buying  furniture  for  it.  I  had  some 
pleasure  in  imagining  the  collection  of  these 
things  and  their  arrangement  in  that  house; 
but,  I  asked  myself,  what  then  ?  It  is  perfectly 
well  known  to  you  that  I  am  entitled  to  no 
position  in  society,  except  such  as  my  money 
would  give  me.  It  is  good  enough  for  Brockett, 
but  I  do  not  fancy  it  for  New  York.  The  sort 
of  position  which  I  should  occupy  there  it  is 
not  agreeable  for  me  to  think  of. ' ' 

"  But  you  would  soon  make  friends." 

"  I  do  not  easily  make  friends,  and,  besides, 
I  do  not  like  to  think  of  the  sort  of  people  who 
would  flock  about  me,  when  I  opened  my  house 
there.  With  no  social  vouchers,  I  should  seem 
a  sort  of  adventuress.  There  is  no  woman  whom 


20  DEAD   SELVES. 

I  could  summon  to  me  as  a  friend,  and  no  man 
as  a  protector.  The  idea  is  unpleasant  to  me. 
I  prefer  to  stay  in  Brockett." 

"  Under  other  circumstances,  however,  you 
would  like  New  York,  would  you  not  ?  Brock 
ett  is  absurdly  limited.  You  would  enjoy  the 
real  world. ' ' 

"  Yes,  I  think  I  should.  It  must  be  interest 
ing,  because  it  is  so  big.  That  is  why  your 
scientific  schemes  have  interested  me.  They 
are  big. " 

At  this  moment,  a  warning  whistle  blew,  and 
people  began  to  collect  their  belongings  and  to 
rise.  Mrs.  Gwyn's  maid  approached,  carrying 
her  mistress's  bag  and  umbrella. 

Fraser  remained  at  Mrs.  Gwyn's  side  until 
they  reached  the  wharf.  She  only  spoke  once,  as 
they  walked  along,  and  that  was  when,  touching 
the  roses  on  her  dress,  and  finding  them  limp 
and  withered,  she  said,  "How  quickly  flowers 
fade  !"  as  if  in  impatient  protest,  and,  unfasten 
ing  them,  she  threw  them  from  her. 

"It  is  supposed  to  be  an  emblem  of  life,"  he 
answered,  smiling.  "  Science  is  the  thing  that 
does  not  disappoint.  If  the  end  fails,  the  way, 
in  itself,  is  compensation." 

"  I  said  you  were  the  most  fortunate  person 


DEAD   SELVES.  21 

that  I  knew,"  she  answered,  as  he  helped  her 
into  the  carriage. 

"Not  if  the  end  fails!  I  may  talk  philo 
sophically,  but  I  must  not  fail  in  this  thing." 

He  closed  the  door  and  raised  his  hat.  Again 
that  unpleasant  consciousness  connected  with 
the  act  recurred  to  him.  "  How  long  are  you 
to  be  in  town?"  he  said,  struggling  to  shake 
it  off. 

"Three  days." 

"  May  I  call  upon  you  ?" 

She  bowed  and  gave  the  name  of  her  hotel. 

The  next  moment  she  was  gone. 


Ill 


THAT  afternoon  Fraser  spent  in  hard  work 
which  bore  directly  on  his  great  scheme. 
Every  hour  its  feasibility  seemed  greater,  its 
success  more  assured,  if  only  he  might  not  be 
hampered  by  the  lack  of  money  ! 

When  evening  came,  he  felt  himself  exhil 
arated  rather  than  exhausted,  and  after  dressing 
and  dining  at  his  club  he  got  into  a  cab  and 
drove  to  Mrs.  Gwyn's  hotel. 

The  servant  who  took  his  card  up  brought 
word  that  Mrs.  Gwyn  would  see  him,  and  led 
the  way  immediately  to  her  rooms. 

When  Fraser  entered,  closing  the  door,  he 
found  her  seated  in  a  large  chair,  near  the 
centre  of  the  small  drawing-room,  her  hands 
lying  idly  in  her  lap.  She  was  exquisitely 
dressed,  in  an  informal  costume  of  the  most 
finished  elegance.  The  gown  was  made  long 
at  the  wrists,  but  it  left  a  little  of  her  rounded 
throat  uncovered.  It  was  of  dense,  dull  white, 
with  bows  of  wide  black  velvet,  one  of  which 
was  set  upright,  toward  the  back  of  her  head, 


DEAD   SELVES.  23 

after  the  manner  of  an  Alsatian  peasant.  She 
wore  no  jewels,  except  on  her  hands,  but  these 
were  weighted  with  superb  stones,  that  glittered 
with  varied  colors.  Fraser,  looking  keenly,  saw 
among^hem  the  small  wedding  circlet,  and  felt 
a  sense  of  shock.  With  such  sentimentality  as 
this,  however,  he  had  nothing  to  do. 

In  his  evening  dress  his  appearance,  though 
not  essentially  handsome,  was  distinguished. 
In  this  quality  Mrs.  Gwyn's  was  fully  a  match 
for  it,  and  she  had,  besides,  the  advantage  of 
remarkable  beauty.  He  doubted,  as  he  looked 
at  her,  whether  she  would  not  consider  him  pre 
sumptuous  in  the  claim  which  he  was  about  to 
make,  but  he  was  determined  that  that  consider 
ation  should  not  prevent  his  laying  the  matter 
before  her. 

"I  am  fortunate  to  find  you  in,"  he  said, 
seating  himself  directly  in  front  of  her. 

"  I  am  always  in,  during  the  evenings,  when 
I  come  to  New  York.  I  know  few  people  here, 
— none,  in  fact,  that  I  care  to  look  up.  Busi 
ness  and  shopping  take  me  out  in  the  day,  but 
in  the  evenings  I  am  usually  quite  alone. ' ' 

"  You  should  have  remembered  to  supply 
yourself  with  books,"  he  said,  looking  around 
and  noticing  that  there  were  none  about. 


24  DEAD   SELVES. 

"  I  do  not  care  for  books.  I  rarely  read 
one." 

"You  have  been  playing,  perhaps,"  he  said, 
seeing  that  the  piano  was  open. 

"  No:  I  thought  I  would,  but  I  changed  my 
mind.  I  do  not  play  much,  and,  besides,  music 
makes  me  sad.  I  don't  understand  why  it 
should,  and  that  irritates  me.  No  wonder  I 
called  you  fortunate,  to  have  continual  occupa 
tion  which  interests  you  !" 

"You  would  have  the  same,"  he  said,  "if 
you  were  in  New  York  and  in  touch  with  the 
life  here." 

' '  Perhaps.  But  I  have  explained  to  you  how 
I  feel  about  that." 

Fraser  turned  upon  her  a  full,  direct  gaze,  as 
he  said : 

"  I  have  heard  it  stated,  Mrs.  Gwyn,  that  you 
are  an  excellent  woman  of  business,  and  it  is  as 
such  that  I  am  going  to  speak  to  you  now  and 
put  before  you  a  certain  proposition.  You  must 
judge  whether  or  not  it  would  be  worth  your 
while  to  accept  it." 

He  paused  an  instant,  and  then,  sure  that  he 
had  her  strict  attention,  went  on  : 

"You  probably  understand  fully  that  the  in 
terest  of  my  life  is  concentrated  in  my  work 


DEAD  SELVES.  25 

and  career  as  a  scientist  and  electrician.  So 
entirely  does  this  occupy  and  satisfy  me  that  I 
have  not,  since  the  time  that  I  embarked  in  it, 
entertained  the  idea  of  marriage.  If  I  do  so 
now,  it  is,  as  you  will  quickly  understand,  for 
the  purpose  of  furthering  that  work  and  career." 

He  paused,  to  see  if  she  would  show  any 
surprise.  Her  face,  however,  remained  calm, 
though  interested. 

"What  I  am  going  to  suggest  for  your  con 
sideration,"  he  went  on,  "may  appear  to  you 
preposterous  in  the  extreme,  but  there  is  no 
reason  why  I  should  not,  at  least,  propose  it. 
You  have  offered  me  the  use  of  your  fortune 
for  the  advancement  of  my  work.  I  could  not 
accept  that  offer  unless  I  made  you  a  return  for 
it.  You  have  told  me  that  this  work  of  mine 
interests  you  and  that  you  would  like  to  have  a 
part  in  it.  You  have  also  said  that  you  would 
like  to  live  in  New  York,  if  you  had  the  proper 
protection  of  a  man  and  an  established  position 
in  society.  I  can  give  you  these  things  that 
you  desire,  and  you,  in  return,  can  give  me  the 
use  of  a  part  of  your  fortune  for  my  work. 
This  is  the  idea  that  I  wished  to  lay  before  you, 
• — the  arrangement  which  I  should,  if  it  meets 
with  your  approval,  be  glad  to  make.  It  is  an 


26  DEAD   SELVES. 

offer  of  marriage,  of  course,  but  merely  of  the 
form  of  marriage,  and  we  should  each  be  as 
free  in  our  own  lives  as  now. ' ' 

When  he  paused,  the  unresponsiveness  in  her 
face  made  her  seem  to  him  almost  stupid.  He 
was  a  good  deal  excited  himself,  for,  far  though 
any  thought  of  love  was  from  his  consciousness, 
it  was  a  significant  and  important  question  upon 
which  he  awaited  her  decision. 

"  I  am  not  certain  that  I  understand  you  per 
fectly,"  she  said. 

"I  offer  you  the  protection  and  the  social 
advantages  of  my  presence  and  my  name,"  he 
answered.  "You  can  easily  satisfy  yourself,  if 
you  are  not  already  satisfied,  that,  as  my  wife, 
your  position  would  be  as  good  as  any  one's. 
You  can  furnish  the  house,  take  part  in  fashion 
able  life,  and,  I  think,  find  interest  and  enjoy 
ment  in  it.  The  important  point  is  whether 
you  will  consider  this,  and  a  partnership  in  my 
career,  as  sufficient  offset  for  the  tremendous 
advantage  I  should  gain  by  the  use  of  your  for 
tune  in  my  work.  This  is  the  question  await 
ing  your  decision.  I  do  not  speak  of  love,  for 
that,  of  course,  is  an  element  which  does  not 
come  in  on  either  side.  In  that  sense,  I  am  as 
much  disinclined  to  marriage  as  I  ever  was." 


DEAD   SELVES.  27 

' '  You  have  reasons  of  your  own, ' '  she  re 
plied,  "for  your  position  as  to  marriage.  I 
also  have  mine.  I  had  made  up  rny  mind 
against  it  as  definitely  as  you  could  have  done ; 
but  sucfi  an  arrangement  as  the  one  you  propose 
shows  me  the  matter  in  a  new  light.  I  consider 
the  advantages  quite  as  great  to  me  as  to  you. 
I  accept  your  offer." 

"I  feel  exceedingly  grateful  to  you  for  the 
confidence  which  your  acceptance  implies,"  he 
answered,  gravely,  "and  with  this  perfect  under 
standing  between  us,  I  think  I  can  promise  that 
you  shall  not  have  cause  to  regret  your  decision." 

That  was  all.  There  were  no  protestations 
on  either  side,  but  the  contract  was  made,  the 
partnership  established. 

There  seemed  to  be  singularly  little  need  for 
talk  or  explanations.  The  conditions  were  sim 
ple  and  were  perfectly  understood.  It  re 
mained  only  to  settle  the  details  of  time  and 
place. 

"You  had  thought  of  going  abroad  to  furnish 
the  house, ' '  he  said,  presently.  ' '  Why  not  carry 
out  that  plan  ?  It  will  be  necessary  for  me  to  go 
shortly  to  Paris  and  Berlin.  May  we  not  have 
the  marriage  ceremony  performed  very  soon 
and  go  together?  I  shall  expect  to  have  you 


28  DEAD   SELVES. 

always  with  me,"  he  added,  with  a  certain 
timidity  of  manner  which  she  had  not  seen  in 
him  before.  "  That  is  my  idea  of  the  real  pro 
tection  which  you  desire.  We  need  not  inter 
fere  in  the  least  with  each  other's  habits,  but  it 
will  be  necessary  for  us  to  be  together.  Fortu 
nately,  you  take  an  interest  in  my  schemes,  and 
I  shall  do  my  best  to  increase  that  interest,  and 
to  take  you  into  my  work  as  far  as  that  is  pos 
sible.  We  shall  not  bore  each  other,  I  think ; 
and  I  trust  we  shall  be  the  best  of  friends." 

He  offered  his  hand  as  he  spoke,  and  she  took 
it,  in  a  cool  clasp. 

"  That  plan  will  suit  me  perfectly,"  she  said. 
"I  can  accommodate  myself  to  any  date  that 
you  like." 

"  Have  you  no  friend  or  trustee  whom  it  will 
be  necessary  for  you  to  consult  ?  Of  course  it 
is  understood  that  the  conditions  of  our  agree 
ment  are  absolutely  between  ourselves ;  but  you 
may  wish  to  advise  with  some  one  before  con 
cluding  it." 

"  No :  there  is  no  one  to  consult.  There 
never  was  a  woman  more  absolutely  mistress  of 
herself  than  I  am." 

"And  so,  believe  me,  you  shall  remain.  I 
will  not  interfere  with  you  nor  inconvenience 


DEAD   SELVES.  29 

you  in  any  way,  but  I  shall  always  be  at  hand 
to  serve  you  to  the  utmost  of  my  power.  It  re 
mains  only  for  you  to  be  good  enough  to  name 
the  day, — as  early  a  one,  I  would  beg,  as  you 
can  conveniently  have  it." 

"Let  it  be  whatever  day  will  best  suit  your 
plans, — to-morrow,  next  week,  a  month,  a  year 
hence ;  just  as  you  please." 

"  Might  I  say  two  or  three  weeks  from  now? 
Not,  however,  if  it  would  inconvenience  or  dis 
tress  you  in  any  way." 

"  That  will  suit  me  perfectly,"  she  answered. 

"  Then,  to  be  definite,  may  I  fix  it  as  the  first 
of  June?" 

She  bowed,  in  quiet  acceptance. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said.  "I  feel  that  your 
trust  in  me  is  very  generous.  It  will  be  a  tre 
mendous  incentive  to  me  to  be  worthy  of  it." 

"  I  have  no  fears,"  she  answered,  "  and  there 
is  nothing  for  you  to  be  grateful  for.  I  shall  be 
getting  what  I  want,  and  if  you,  in  turn,  do  the 
same,  all  is  well.  I  shall  feel  a  sense  of  satis 
faction  in  my  money  which  I  have  failed  to  get 
before." 

She  said  this  naturally  and  simply,  without 
emphasis  or  any  trace  of  strong  feeling. 

When  Fraser  was  gone,  she  sat  for  some  time 


3o  DEAD   SELVES. 

without  changing  her  position,  or  even,  per 
ceptibly,  her  expression.  Then  a  subtle  altera 
tion,  as  of  a  passing  cloud,  crossed  her  face, 
and  two  tears  overflowed  her  eyes  and  fell  upon 
her  lap.  She  looked  at  them  in  some  surprise, 
for  she  had  no  definite  consciousness  of  the  feel 
ing  that  had  been  their  source.  Why  should 
she  shed  tears  ?  She  was  better  contented  with 
the  prospect  now  unrolled  before  her  than  she 
had  been  with  any  other  on  the  horizon  of  her 
life.  She  was  mercifully  freed  from  what  had 
once  so  burdened  and  oppressed  her.  She  had 
now  the  chance  which  she  had  sometimes  cov 
eted  of  showing  her  beautiful  person  and  her 
splendid  toilets  to  the  highest  advantage  and  in 
a  social  position  which  could  not  be  impeached. 
Besides  this,  the  man  who  had  always  seemed  to 
her  the  most  impressive  and  important  person 
she  had  ever  seen  was  to  be  her  companion 
every  day  of  her  life,  and  to  take  his  position 
as  her  husband.  What  a  wonderful  feeling  it 
would  be,  to  appear  in  public  with  a  husband 
of  whom  she  could  be  proud  !  Then,  too,  she 
was  to  travel  abroad,  and  to  have  such  a  part  as 
she  should  prove  able  to  take,  in  this  man's 
career.  How  fortunate  she  was,  and  how  in 
explicable  was  the  source  of  those  two  tears  ! 


DEAD   SELVES.  31 

As  for  Fraser,  he  turned  away  from  that  inter 
view  feeling  entirely  content.  He  was  a  man 
quite  able  to  dispense  with  the  good  opinion  of 
the  world,  if  necessary.  He  had  had  to  make 
himselfindifferent  to  that,  before  going  half  so 
far  in  his  present  career,  for  he  had  had  his  share 
of  condemnation  and  even  ridicule  to  bear.  It 
mattered  little  to  him,  however,  whether  the 
world  believed  in  him  or  not,  so  long  as  he  be 
lieved  in  himself;  and  the  rule  which  he  applied 
habitually  in  public  matters  he  now  applied 
specifically  in  this  very  private  one.  He  knew 
that  the  world  would  suppose  him  to  occupy  a 
position  which  he  would  have  scorned  to  take ; 
but  as  long  as  he  himself  knew  of  the  strict  line 
drawn  between  that  position  and  the  reality,  he 
was  entirely  contented. 


IV 

RHODA  GWYN  had  been  called  Rhoda 
Fraser  for  two  years.  She  had  estab 
lished  herself  in  New  York  and  had  become  a 
distinguished  figure  in  its  society.  The  current 
of  her  life,  on  its  surface  at  least,  had  flowed  on 
with  serenity  and  success.  Nothing  could  have 
been  more  harmonious  than  her  life  with  Fraser. 
They  had  settled  it  between  them  how  much  of 
her  fortune  was  to  be  at  his  disposal  for  his  work, 
the  only  difficulty  being  that  she  wished  him  not 
to  put  this  restriction  on  himself, — perhaps  the 
only  wish  of  hers  with  which  he  had  refused  to 
comply.  He  talked  to  her  freely  about  his  in 
vestigations  and  experiments,  and  she  took  a 
serious  interest  in  them.  The  farther  the  way 
was  opened  up,  however,  the  more  tremendous 
did  the  labor  and  difficulties  appear ;  more  than 
once  he  had  told  her  that,  but  for  her  daring 
and  belief  in  him,  in  putting  this  great  sum  of 
money  into  his  hands,  he  would  have  been  com 
pelled  to  give  up  all. 

His  evident  confidence  in  her  stimulated  her 
32 


DEAD   SELVES.  33 

to  greater  efforts  to  be  of  service  to  him.  She 
began,  surreptitiously,  to  read  the  scientific 
books  and  magazines  which  she  saw  him  poring 
over,  and  soon  came  to  take  an  intelligent  in 
terest  in  his  work  which  often  surprised  him. 
She  would  put  down  the  names  of  these  books, 
order  them  for  herself,  and  study  them,  with 
persevering  patience,  during  her  quiet  hours. 
Of  these  there  were  many,  for  she  was  abso 
lutely  alone  in  the  great  magnificent  house,  and 
she  was  not  a  woman  who  easily  made  friends. 
She  was  generally  liked  and  admired,  and  had 
a  long  visiting-list,  to  which  she  paid  due  regard, 
but  an  intimate  of  any  kind  she  had  never  had 
in  her  life.  Losing  her  parents  early,  and 
having  no  brothers  or  sisters,  the  claims  of  rela 
tionship  had  sat  upon  her  very  lightly,  and,  in 
spite  of  her  two  marriages,  she  had  never  come 
near  to  any  human  soul.  As  an  offset  to  this 
fact,  it  was  true  that  she  had  never  in  former 
days  felt  the  need  of  such  close  relationship. 
If  she  felt  it  now,  it  was  a  consciousness  which 
was  just  beginning  to  dawn  upon  her. 

Rhoda's  was  one  of  the  natures  which  develop 

slowly,  depending  for  their  development  chiefly 

upon  affection  ;  and  affection  was  a  thing  which 

Rhoda  had  never  received  in  her  life,  and  had 

3 


34  DEAD   SELVES. 

not  even  given.  Her  childhood  and  girlhood 
had  also  been  passed  without  intellectual  stim 
ulus,  and,  in  spite  of  her  beauty,  talent  for 
dress,  and  really  distinguished  manners,  it  might 
have  been  said  with  reason,  and  indeed  it  some 
times  had  been  said,  that  Rhoda  was  dull. 

The  first  stimulus  that  came  to  her  mind  was 
this  interest  in  Eraser's  scientific  work,  but 
the  obstacles  which  lay  in  her  way  were  great 
and  many.  In  reading  scientific  books  and 
magazines  she  would  have  to  look  out  so  many 
words  in  the  dictionary  that  her  brain  would 
almost  whirl ;  but  somehow  she  made  progress, 
and  had  taken  her  first  step  in  the  fascinating 
path  of  intellectual  expansion.  Her  reward  for 
these  efforts  was  something  that  gave  her  a 
pleasure  beyond  her  imagining. 

Eraser,  seeing  her  sympathetic  attitude  to 
ward  his  work  and  remembering  her  large  prac 
tical  interest  in  its  result,  talked  to  her  more 
and  more  freely  about  it,  and  one  day  sud 
denly  proposed  that  she  should  go  with  him  to 
Brockett  and  give  him  some  aid  in  the  labora 
tory. 

Rhoda  went,  with  a  new  and  uncomprehended 
feeling  in  her  heart,  which  was  nearer  akin  to 
joy  than  anything  she  had  known. 


DEAD   SELVES.  35 

That  day  was  the  first  of  many.  Very  often 
now  she  went  with  Fraser  to  the  laboratory, 
and  was  able  to  give  him  some  assistance  oc 
casionally,  by  looking  up  references,  and  by 
delicate^  manipulations  of  weight  and  measure 
ment,  at  which  her  deft  hands  and  long  pointed 
fingers  were  very  clever.  People  in  society 
who  knew  of  these  expeditions  of  Rhoda's  to 
her  husband's  workshop  joked  about  them  in 
a  flattering  sort  of  way,  and  said  that  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Fraser  were  quite  the  ideal  pair  and  that 
they  cast  in  the  shade  the  connubial  relations 
of  their  neighbors.  Such  jests  as  these  always 
stung  Rhoda,  when  they  occurred  in  the  pres 
ence  of  Fraser.  Otherwise  she  was  indifferent 
to  them. 

On  one  occasion,  as  she  was  leaving  the 
house  to  go  with  Fraser  to  Brockett,  he  said  to 
her  suddenly  : 

"  Why  don't  you  bring  a  book,  to  read  when 
I  am  busy  without  you?" 

"  I  can  get  one  there,"  she  said. 

"  Only  the  books  that  relate  to  our  business," 
he  said, — he  was  fond  of  referring  to  it  in  this 
way.  "  Take  a  novel." 

"  I  don't  care  for  novels." 

"  But  you  never  read  them,  according  to  what 


36  DEAD   SELVES. 

you  have  told  me.  Perhaps  you  could  cultivate 
the  habit." 

He  saw  that  she  still  looked  disinclined. 

"  Let  me  choose  one  for  you.  What  do  you 
say  to  '  Middlemarch'  ?  ' ' 

"  I  have  never  read  it." 

"  Then  read  it  you  must !  I  expect  to  go  on 
reading  it  over,  as  often  as  I  have  time,  as  long 
as  I  live." 

He  went  to  the  library,  brought  his  own  copy 
of  the  book,  and  put  it  into  his  bag,  with  some 
important  letters  and  papers  that  related  to  his 
work. 

When  they  arrived  at  Brockett,  some  men 
were  waiting  to  see  him,  and  so  he  left  Rhoda 
in  the  little  rubbishy  sitting-room,  which  had 
been  the  creation  of  his  bachelor  days  and  had 
never  been  disturbed  since. 

Rhoda  was  used  to  waiting  here  for  hours. 
When  Eraser  did  not  want  her,  she  would  re 
main  here  patiently,  and  either  read  or  think, 
never  interrupting  him,  no  matter  how  long  he 
might  be  delayed.  She  had  done  more  think 
ing  than  reading  in  this  little,  crowded  room, 
with  its  litter  of  dusty  instruments  and  disused 
papers  and  materials,  and,  if  reading  was  a  new 
mental  exercise  with  her,  thinking  was  almost  as 


DEAD  SELVES.  37 

much  so, — at  least  the  sort  of  thinking  which 
absorbed  her  now.  She  was  like  a  person  who 
had  realized  that  he  was  cold,  without  realizing 
the  possibility  that  he  might  be  warm,  or  like  a 
bird  wfto,  in  the  confines  of  his  cage,  realizes 
his  captivity  but  does  not  realize  the  liberty  that 
is  beyond  it.  The  bird  is  happier  so ;  and  so 
was  Rhoda  happier,  perhaps,  when  she  felt  that 
she  was  joyless  but  did  not  realize  that  she  might 
have  had  joy. 

That  feeling  had  dawned  imperceptibly  upon 
her  slow  consciousness,  and  she  was  just  begin 
ning  to  know  the  pain  of  it. 

This  morning — another  bright  May  day,  two 
years  after  that  important  trip  from  Brockett  to 
New  York — Rhoda  sat  amidst  the  litter  of  the 
shabby  little  office  that  opened  into  the  great 
laboratory,  and,  with  the  book  lying  unnoticed 
on  her  lap,  looked  out  of  the  open  window. 

There  had  been  a  recent  rain,  and  the  young 
green  leaves  overhead,  as  well  as  the  young 
grass-blades  underfoot,  had  been  newly  washed, 
and  threw  off  the  sunshine  from  their  surfaces 
with  a  delicate  glitter.  There  was  a  bush  out 
side  the  window,  in  which  a  catbird  was  build 
ing  its  nest,  with  many  self-important  twitterings 
and  flirts.  A  honeysuckle-vine  grew  near,  and 


38  DEAD   SELVES. 

a  great  thick-bodied  bee,  weighed  down  with 
honey  and  yet  bent  on  getting  more,  flew  in 
and  out  of  the  window  with  a  droning  buzz. 

Rhoda,  whose  perceptions  of  every  kind 
seemed  to  have  undergone  some  inexplicable 
quickening  recently,  looked  with  interest  at  the 
bird  and  the  bee,  and  fell  to  speculating  on  their 
habits,  in  a  way  that  would  once  have  been  un 
natural,  if  not  impossible,  to  her.  If  they,  in 
their  turn,  had  had  the  same  faculties  of  obser 
vation,  they  might  also  have  been  roused  to 
interest  by  the  figure  sitting  there  so  silent  and 
motionless. 

Rhoda  was  not  yet  twenty-five,  and  certainly 
her  beauty  had  no  more  than  reached  its  merid 
ian.  There  was  something  exquisitely  simple  in 
the  impression  that  she  made,  in  spite  of  the 
careful  details  of  her  costume,  which  all  be 
tokened  the  woman  of  fashion ;  but  the  ex 
pression  of  her  face  was  so  far  removed  from 
such  things  that  one  might  have  supposed  that 
she  had  been  taken  and  dressed,  as  one  might 
have  dressed  a  doll. 

This,  however,  was  far  from  the  case,  for 
Rhoda  gave  extreme  care  and  attention  to  the 
matter  of  her  toilet.  For  this,  there  were  two 
reasons.  One  was  a  strong  instinct  which  she 


DEAD   SELVES.  39 

had  for  it,  and  the  other  was  the  fact  that  Fraser 
liked  to  see  her  well,  dressed  and,  on  one  or  two 
occasions,  had  praised  her  taste.  Poor  Rhoda  ! 
she  was  slow,  even  in  interpreting  herself  to 
herself,  *and  she  hardly  realized  that  it  was  in 
consequence  of  this  that  she  had  since  chosen 
her  costumes  with  greater  care.  Her  figure 
was  admirable,  made  on  large  lines  and  with 
noble  curves.  Her  large  eyes,  gray  and  can 
did,  were  at  this  moment  absent  in  their  gaze, 
and  the  corners  of  her  mouth  had  a  certain 
droop.  She  had  a  peculiar  quality  of  uncon 
sciousness  of  self,  and  she  sat  there  in  a  sort  of 
dream  in  which  the  bird,  the  bee,  the  face  of 
nature,  and  herself  were  all  somehow  blended. 

From  this  state  she  was  roused  by  a  certain 
dimness  in  the  eyes  and  a  consciousness  of  fall 
ing  tears.  She  had  shed  few  tears  in  her  life. 
Somehow  her  feelings  had  rarely  expressed 
themselves  in  that  way,  and  the  sight  of  the 
two  spots  upon  the  green  cover  of  her  book 
roused  her  from  her  lethargy. 

She  sat  upright,  looked  about  her,  brushed 
her  eyes  with  her  handkerchief,  and,  changing 
her  position,  drew  off  her  glove  and  opened  her 
book. 

Her  recent  experiences  had  taught  her  the 


40  DEAD   SELVES. 

lesson  of  thoroughness,  and  she  had  no  faculty 
for  skimming  the  surfaces  of  things.  With  her, 
reading  was  studying,  and  so  it  was  a  concen 
trated  mind  which  she  now  brought  to  bear 
upon  the  pages  before  her.  She  was  bent  on 
giving  her  whole  attention  to  this  book,  though 
she  did  not  perhaps  consciously  recall  the  fact 
of  Eraser's  high  commendation  of  it.  She 
opened  at  the  Prelude,  and  read  the  first  para 
graph  attentively,  pausing  to  conjecture  what 
"an  epic  life"  might  mean,  and  looking  about 
for  a  dictionary,  that  she  might  hunt  out  the 
word  "epos."  There  was  none  at  hand,  how 
ever,  but  she  had  guessed  at  something  in  that 
paragraph  beyond  its  mere  words,  and  she  went 
back  and  read  it  over.  Then  she  went  eagerly 
on  to  the  end. 

When  she  had  finished  the  two  pages,  she  read 
them  again,  pausing  thoughtfully  on  certain 
phrases,  and  then  going  on  with  an  almost 
breathless  interest.  She  did  not  understand  it 
all.  There  was  something  in  it  deeper  than 
the  definitions  and  technicalities  of  science, 
but  there  were  certain  expressions  in  it  which 
she  could  not  let  go.  Over  and  over  she  read 
those  words  :  ' '  Perhaps  only  a  life  of  mistakes, 
the  offspring  of  a  certain  spiritual  grandeur  ill 


DEAD   SELVES.  41 

matched  with  the  meanness  of  opportunity; 
perhaps  a  tragic  failure  which  found  no  sacred 
poet  and  sank  unwept  into  oblivion." 

What  did  that  mean?  She  understood  the 
surface  ^meaning  of  the  words,  of  course,  but 
she  felt  an  inward  significance  that  she  longed 
to  probe  to  the  bottom.  She  finished  the  para 
graph  and  felt  thirsty  for  more.  She  read  the 
last  sentences  over  again,  and  then  plunged 
eagerly  into  the  story. 

It  was  not  so  absorbingly  interesting  to  her 
as  the  Prelude  had  been,  but  it  fascinated  her 
as  no  story  ever  had  before,  and  there  were 
sentences  now  and  then  which  were  like  spirit 
ual  food  to  her  soul.  Presently  she  found  her 
self  skipping,  a  thing  she  had  never  done  in 
her  reading  before,  but  her  ardent  longing  to 
follow  Dorothea  in  her  thoughts  and  feelings 
and  experiences  was  an  impulse  which  no  book, 
heretofore,  had  given  her. 

After  a  long  time  the  door  opened  and  Fraser 
appeared.  He  stood  still  on  the  threshold, 
startled  at  Rhoda's  appearance.  Her  eyes, 
usually  so  cool  and  clear,  were  suffused  with 
feeling,  and  her  cheeks  with  color.  Her  face 
was  a  picture  so  continually  before  him  that 
he  did  not  often  take  special  notice  of  it,  but 


42  DEAD   SELVES. 

now  he  saw  it  in  a  new  light  that  brought  out 
its  latent  beauties;  only  in  this  instance  the 
light  came  from  within. 

"  What  is  it,  Rhoda?"  he  said.  "  What  has 
happened  to  you  ?' ' 

' '  This  book, ' '  she  said, ' '  this  wonderful  book! 
Why  have  I  never  known  that  there  were  books 
like  this  in  the  world  ?' ' 

"  Why,  indeed  ?  Have  you  really  never  read 
George  Eliot  before?" 

"Never  a  word.  Well,  I  think  I  shall  not 
say  I  don't  like  reading,  after  this." 

She  had  recovered  something  of  her  usual 
manner  as  she  said  these  words,  and  her  face 
had  also  become  more  quiet  and  natural.  Per 
haps  he  felt  a  pang  of  regret  to  see  the  departure 
of  an  influence  which  had  been  so  beautifying, 
for  he  said : 

"  Why  don't  you  go  on  with  your  book?  I 
am  almost  sorry  that  I  interrupted  you." 

"I  will  finish  it  at  home,"  she  said,  closing 
it  and  rising  to  her  feet.  "  Can  I  do  anything 
to  help  you  now?" 

"  I  did  want  you  for  a  little  while,"  he  said, 
"  but  it  seems  a  shame " 

"Oh,  please  let  me  come,"  she  interrupted 
him.  "  The  book  will  keep." 


DEAD   SELVES.  43 

His  eyes  lingered  on  her,  just  a  second,  as  he 
said  : 

"  You  are  very  good,  I  think,  to  help  me  so 
willingly." 

"  Ohf  it's  my  work  as  well  as  yours,  you 
know,"  she  answered.  "You  promised  me  a 
part  in  it,  so  I  am  proud  of  every  little  trifling 
service  I  can  render  in  its  cause." 

"You  really  do  take  a  pride  in  it,  don't 
you?"  he  said.  "Why?  For  its  own  sake, 
and  because  you  believe  in  it?" 

"  Of  course.  What  other  reason  could  there 
be?" 

"  Certainly,"  he  said,  in  rather  hasty  agree 
ment:  "that  is  the  strongest  possible  basis  for 
such  a  feeling." 


THE  next  day  Fraserwent  alone  to  Brockett. 
Soon  after  his  departure  Rhoda  received 
a  large  parcel,  addressed  to  her  in  his  hand 
writing.  It  proved  to  be  a  complete  edition  of 
George  Eliot,  and  in  the  front  of  the  copy  of 
" Middlemarch"  were  the  pencilled  words  "For 
Rhoda."  It  was  the  first  present  Fraser  had 
ever  given  her.  There  were  no  birthdays, 
anniversaries,  or  little  celebrations  between 
them. 

It  was  pleasant  to  Rhoda  to  have  this  gift 
from  him,  and  in  itself  it  was  a  treasure  of  great 
price.  She  shut  herself  up  alone  in  her  beauti 
ful  apartments  and  read  for  hours  at  a  time, 
following  the  histories  of  Dorothea,  Maggie, 
Romola,  Gwendolen,  and  the  other  passionate 
woman-problems  of  those  pages.  The  literary 
art  was  nothing  to  her,  and  much  that  was 
exquisite  escaped  her,  but  she  got  somehow  a 
food  which  she  craved,  and  which  increased  the 
appetite  which  it  fed.  By  the  light  of  these 
life-histories  she  began  to  read  something  of  the 
44 


DEAD   SELVES.  45 

mystery  of  her  own  heart.  In  spite  of  her  soli 
tary  life,  Rhoda  was  not  introspective.  There 
seemed  to  be  a  veil  between  her  eyes  and  her 
soul,  and  she  knew  herself  as  little  as  she  knew 
the  real  selves  of  others. 

But  liow  there  was  a  change.  The  veil  was 
there,  but  some  new  power  had  made  her  gaze 
more  penetrating.  She  began  to  wrestle,  for 
the  first  time,  with  the  problem  of  herself. 

She  was  oppressed  by  an  awful  loneliness. 
Even  Saint  Theresa  had  had  her  little  brother's 
hand  in  hers  in  going  forth  to  the  life-battle, 
but  she  had  nothing,  no  one.  The  last  thing 
possible  to  her  was  to  make  any  demand  for 
companionship  or  sympathy  upon  Fraser ;  but 
she  wanted  some  one  to  speak  to,  some  one  who 
would  care  about  what  she  did  and  what  became 
of  her.  As  she  began  to  care  more  for  the  lots 
of  others,  she  longed  that  others  might  come  to 
care  for  her  lot. 

An  idea  occurred  to  her  which  soon  grew  into 
a  determined  purpose. 

One  evening  they  were  dining  alone.  This 
did  not  occur  often,  for  the  dinner-hour  was 
almost  Eraser's  only  relaxation,  and  he  liked 
then  to  go  out,  or  have  guests, — a  want  which 
Rhoda  silently  and  skilfully  supplied. 


46  DEAD   SELVES. 

When  the  servants  had  left  them  to  their 
coffee,  Rhoda  said,  rather  abruptly  : 

"  Would  you  have  any  objection  to  my  asking 
your  mother  to  come  and  stay  with  me  ?" 

The  question  evidently  surprised  him,  but 
after  a  second  he  said,  quite  naturally  : 

"  I  think  my  mother  is  too  old  and  too  fixed 
in  her  habits  of  life  to  enjoy  a  visit  to  New 
York  and  the  exactions  of  modern  life.  It  is 
very  kind  of  you,  though,  to  have  had  the 
thought  of  her,  and  I  appreciate  it  very  much. ' ' 

"I  do  not  deserve  any  credit,  I  am  afraid," 
said  Rhoda.  "It  was  purely  on  my  own  ac 
count  that  I  wished  it.  I  should  like  to  have 
her  with  me  for  a  while  " 

Fraser  hesitated  visibly.  She  could  not  fail 
to  see  a  certain  look  of  reluctance  in  his  face. 

"  She  was  very  kind  to  me  the  one  time  that 
I  saw  her,"  Rhoda  said,  "  and  I  should  like  to 
see  her  again.  If  you  think  that  it  would  trouble 
her  too  much  to  come  to  me,  could  not  I  go  to 
her  for  a  few  days  ?  She  invited  me  most  cor 
dially.  Have  you  any  objection  ?" 

"Certainly  not.  How  could  I  have?  But 
just  at  present  I  am  afraid  I  could  not  get  off  to 
go  with  you.  If  you  would  not  mind  going 
alone " 


DEAD   SELVES.  47 

"  Not  at  all.  Indeed,  I  think  I  should  prefer 
it.  She  adores  you  so  that,  when  you  are 
about,  she  has  eyes  for  no  one  else." 

She  smiled  as  she  said  it,  and  her  smile  was 
for  a  mcment  reflected  in  his  face. 

"  Yes,"  he  said;  "  the  greatest  reason  I  have 
ever  had  for  believing  in  myself  is  because  my 
mother  believes  in  me.  I  have  always  respected 
her  opinion  above  any  in  the  world,  and  she  is 
certainly  the  only  being  in  it  of  whom  I  am 
afraid.  To  this  day,  the  thought  of  her  disap 
proval  is  the  most  powerful  check  upon  me  that 
I  ever  have. ' ' 

"  You  do  not  then  object  to  my  writing  and 
proposing  myself  for  a  short  visit  ?" 

"  Far  from  it.  I'd  be  delighted.  I  am  only 
sorry  that  I  can't  go  with  you." 

This  speech,  which  came  so  trippingly  from 
his  tongue,  was  one  of  those  glib  insincerities 
which  most  of  us  utter  every  day ;  for,  as  Fraser, 
a  few  moments  later,  withdrew  to  the  smoking- 
room  and  sat  there  reflectively  over  his  cigar,  he 
was  feeling  a  decided  disinclination  to  the  plan 
which  he  had  just  so  cordially  endorsed. 

The  reason  of  this,  which  was  distinct  and 
sufficient  to  his  own  consciousness,  he  would 
have  been  entirely  unwilling  for  Rhoda  to  know. 


48  DEAD   SELVES. 

He  had  sometimes  wondered  that  she  had  never 
seemed  to  show  any  surprise  when,  on  each  one 
of  his  occasional  visits  to  his  mother,  since  his 
marriage,  he  had  made  some  pretext  for  going 
alone.  The  truth  was,  he  felt  so  deep  a  regard 
for  his  mother's  opinion,  and  so  wholesome  a 
fear  of  the  penetratingness  of  her  vision,  that  he 
was  strongly  opposed  to  the  idea  of  subjecting 
the  relations  existing  between  Rhoda  and  him 
self  to  her  scrutiny. 

He  knew  that  his  mother  held  the  old-fash 
ioned  and  conservative  views  about  marriage, 
and  he  felt  that  this  discovery  would  be  a  blow 
to  her,  and  a  consciousness  between  his  heart 
and  hers  from  which  he  shrank.  He  did  not 
even  wholly  fancy  the  idea  of  Rhoda' s  going 
alone,  for  he  had  found  it  necessary  to  keep 
himself  continually  on  guard  to  elude  the  loving 
curiosity  of  his  mother  as  to  his  marriage  and 
its  effect  on  him.  She  had  told  him  more  than 
once  that  he  was  too  much  absorbed  in  his  work, 
and  that  she  would  like  to  see  it  relegated  to  its 
proper  place  and  made  the  secondary  object  of 
his  life,  and  had  said  that  she  feared  he  had 
married  a  woman  who  gave  up  to  him  too  much, 
— a  fault  which  his  mother  had  never  fallen 
into  ! 


DEAD  SELVES.  49 

While  he  was  engaged  in  his  reflections, 
Rhoda  had  gone  impulsively  to  the  library  and 
got  out  writing-things.  She  now  appeared  at 
the  door  of  the  smoking-room  with  a  sealed  and 
stamped,  letter  in  her  hand. 

"  I  have  written  to  your  mother,"  she  said. 

"You  will  be  giving  her  a  very  great  pleas 
ure,"  he  answered,  as  a  servant  appeared  in  an 
swer  to  Rhoda' s  ring  and  she  handed  him  the 
letter  to  be  posted. 

"  My  object,  as  I  told  you,  is  altogether  sel 
fish,"  Rhoda  said. 

Fraser  had  risen  at  her  entrance,  and  they 
now  stood,  facing  each  other,  both  young, 
handsome,  and  in  an  environment  which  seemed 
made  for  two  such  beings  to  be  happy  in.  Why 
could  they  not  be  so  ? 

Rhoda  never  lingered  in  the  smoking-room ; 
indeed,  she  never  went  there  except  for  some 
explicit  purpose,  and,  that  being  in  this  instance 
accomplished,  she  turned  away.  He  had  an 
impulse  to  detain  her,  without  knowing  for 
what,  but  he  said  nothing,  and  the  next  mo 
ment  he  saw  her  passing  up  the  wide  staircase 
and  disappearing  in  the  direction  of  her  own 
apartments. 

Rhoda's  present  conduct  rather  made  him 
4 


50  DEAD   SELVES. 

wonder,  for  she  did  not  usually  act  impulsively; 
he  would  have  said  that  she  was  the  reverse  of 
an  impulsive  woman.  But  what,  after  all,  did 
he  know  about  her?  She  was  always  beautiful, 
and  conformable  to  his  wishes  and  his  taste, 
when  in  his  presence ;  and  when  she  was  out 
of  it  he  rarely  thought  of  her.  His  work  ab 
sorbed  him  and  encroached  more  and  more 
on  other  interests.  To  tell  the  truth,  he  had 
resolutely  schooled  himself  not  to  think  of 
Rhoda,  for  with  the  thought  of  her  would 
come  that  of  two  others, — the  creature  who 
had  been  her  husband  and  the  creature  who 
was  still  her  child. 

Of  these  two  beings  his  mother  had  heard 
but  very  little.  She  lived  quite  out  of  the  world, 
and  it  had  been  a  softened  account  of  Rhoda's 
first  husband  that  had  been  given  her,  while  as 
to  the  child  she  knew  nothing.  Its  existence 
was  alluded  to  by  no  one,  and  it  was  generally 
supposed  to  be  dead.  Rhoda  never  by  any 
chance  referred  to  it,  and  Fraser  tried  his  best 
to  put  it  out  of  his  mimd.  But,  living  or  dead, 
the  child  was  a  stubborn  fact  in  his  conscious 
ness,  and  so  also  was  its  father. 

The  more  Fraser  became  familiarized  with 
Rhoda's  beauty,  refinement,  and  intelligence, 


DEAD  SELVES.  51 

the  more  horrible  did  those  two  facts  become 
to  him,  and  never  had  they  seemed  more  so 
than  to-night,  when  he  found  himself  forced  to 
contemplate  the  prospect  of  Rhoda  and  his 
mothertogether,  and  to  contrast  the  ideal  which 
his  mother  had  had  of  the  woman  who  was  to 
be  his  wife,  with  the  fact  of  the  woman  who  now 
held  that  position  in  the  world's  eyes. 

And  yet  surely  no  ideal  of  a  fond  mother's 
imagining  could  have  been  more  lovely  in  ap 
pearance  than  was  Rhoda,  more  gentle  in  na 
ture,  more  generous  in  soul.  He  told  himself 
all  this  repeatedly,  but  it  only  made  that  ugly 
blot  blacker.  Now,  as  he  fancied  what  would 
be  his  mother's  opinion  of  a  woman  who  could 
be  capable  of  such  a  thing,  he  shrank  within 
himself.  Then  there  followed  close  the  ques 
tion,  what  would  his  mother  think  of  a  man 
who  could  take  upon  himself  the  vows  and 
obligations  of  marriage  with  such  a  woman, 
scorning  her  in  his  soul,  and  wishing  only  to 
get  possession  of  her  money  for  the  advance 
ment  of  his  career? 

The  thought  of  this  was  unendurable.  He 
must  shake  it  off  somehow.  He  got  up,  and 
went  off  to  the  club,  feeling  some  change  of 
the  current  of  his  feelings  to  be  a  necessity. 


52  DEAD   SELVES. 

Rhoda  meantime  was  alone  in  her  room, 
freed  from  the  constriction  of  her  dinner  toilet, 
and  dressed  in  a  loose  soft  gown,  over  which 
her  hair  fell  free.  She  was  scanning  eagerly  the 
pages  which  described  Romola's  meeting  with 
Savonarola  on  the  day  of  her  flight  from  Tito. 
She  was  utterly  unconscious  of  herself  and  her 
own  loveliness,  as  her  fascinated  gaze  rested  on 
the  book  in  her  hand.  These  were  the  words 
she  read :  "  Man  cannot  choose  his  duties. 
You  may  choose  to  forsake  your  duties,  and 
choose  not  to  have  the  sorrow  they  bring.  But 
you  will  go  forth,  and  what  will  you  find,  my 
daughter  ?  Sorrow  without  duty,  bitter  herbs, 
and  no  bread  with  them. ' ' 

The  book  fell  from  her  hand.  A  thought 
had  throbbed  through  her  consciousness,  which 
might  be  either  a  life-throe  or  a  death- throe. 
She  did  not  know  what  it  was,  for  she  had 
never  felt  the  like  before.  One  blessed  quality 
it  had,  however :  it  was  definite,  tangible,  dis 
tinct.  So  much  that  she  felt  about  her  was 
vague  and  formless  that  she  seemed  always 
groping  through  a  maze ;  but  here  at  least  was 
something  that  she  could  grasp  and  hold. 

She  must  stop  and  think,  however.  She  must 
be  sure ;  and,  in  this  juncture  which  she  felt  to 


DEAD   SELVES.  53 

be  in  some  way  a  crisis,  she  thought,  with  throb 
bing  comfort,  of  the  visit  she  was  about  to  make, 
and  of  the  woman,  old  and  experienced  and 
good,  to  whom  she  might  now  turn  for  help. 
It  was  $ie  first  time  that  she  had  had  a  foretaste 
of  friendship,  and  it  was  infinitely  sweet  to  her. 


VI 

MRS.  FRASER  wrote  promptly  to  ex 
press  her  delight  at  the  proposed  visit. 
Fraser,  who  had  dined  out  that  evening,  came 
in  rather  late,  but  Rhoda  was  so  anxious  to 
tell  him  of  the  letter  and  to  arrange  for  her 
immediate  departure  that  she  waited  up  for 
him,  and  about  eleven  o'clock  went  down  to 
seek  him. 

The  hall  was  thickly  carpeted,  and  her  slip 
pered  feet  were  almost  noiseless  as  she  ap 
proached  the  library.  At  the  door,  however, 
she  stopped  suddenly,  checked  by  the  sight  of 
Fraser  lying  on  the  lounge  asleep. 

She  stood  perfectly  still  for  a  few  minutes, 
and  then,  moving  with  extreme  caution,  came 
nearer  and  sank  noiselessly  into  a  chair  a  few 
feet  from  him,  while  he  slept  on  profoundly. 

The  face  of  the  sleeping  man  was  troubled  and 
the  brows  were  slightly  contracted,  as  if  with 
anxiety  or  pain.  Rhoda,  who  had  strong  in 
tuitions  about  him,  had  suspected  that  his  work 
was  not  going  well,  but  had  not  spoken  of  it. 
54 


DEAD   SELVES.  55 

Generally  he  did  not  tell  her  of  difficulties, 
until  they  were  over.  She  knew  that  this  was 
to  spare  her  annoyance,  and  if  she  would  have 
preferred  not  to  be  so  spared,  she  never  told 
him  so. 

She  sat  there  now  and  looked  at  him  with  in 
tensity  and  interest  as  if  she  had  never  seen  him 
before.  It  was  indeed  true  that  she  had  not 
before  seen  him  quite  off  guard,  and  had  not 
studied  and  examined  his  face.  Their  eyes 
never  rested  on  each  other  long,  and  never  once 
during  these  two  years  of  life  together  had  they 
shown  each  other  the  full  unguarded  vision  of  a 
frank  and  open  gaze. 

Now,  however,  though  his  eyes  were  fast 
closed,  she  looked  at  him  long  and  deliberately, 
with  a  gaze  of  intense  scrutiny. 

The  face  of  the  man  stretched  at  length  before 
her  was  strong  and  decided,  the  figure  powerful, 
the  hands  firm  and  capable,  and,  though  finely 
modelled,  a  little  hardened  by  the  use  of  acids 
and  metals  and  extremes  of  heat  and  cold. 
Somehow,  this  made  a  strong  appeal  to  her, 
and  she  looked  at  them  long.  There  was  some 
thing  very  noble-looking  about  this  figure,  lost 
in  the  repose  of  sleep,  and  something  strongly 
impressive  in  the  sad  unconscious  face. 


56  DEAD   SELVES. 

For  it  was  sad.  Rhoda  saw  that  more  plainly 
than  she  saw  anything  else.  Her  gaze  grew 
more  and  more  intense,  and  in  the  earnestness 
of  her  scrutiny,  she  bent  toward  him,  and 
looked  and  looked,  as  if  it  were  her  last  and 
only  chance.  Was  it  that  thought  which  gave 
such  meaning  to  her  absorbed  and  burning 
gaze,  or  was  it  perhaps  another  ? 

Her  hands  were  clasped  together  in  her  lap, 
with  a  pressure  which  crushed  the  rings  into  the 
flesh.  Her  breath  came  in  such  rapid  pants 
that  she  had  to  part  her  lips  that  the  sound  of 
it  might  not  arouse  him.  A  look  was  on  her 
face  that,  until  this  moment,  it  had  never  known. 
If  the  sleeping  man  had  waked,  would  he  have 
known  her? 

As  little  did  she  know  herself !  What  was  it 
that  had  entered  into  her,  changing  and  dom 
inating  her  ?  After  those  long  moments  of  self- 
forgetfulness  she  became  possessed  of  an  acute 
self-consciousness.  Its  effect  was  to  fill  her  with 
alarm.  She  got  up  hastily  and  turned  from  the 
room.  Across  the  great  hall  she  sped,  almost 
running,  in  her  haste  to  be  alone.  The  thought 
of  meeting  a  servant  filled  her  with  terror.  Like 
a  creature  hunted  and  followed,  she  ran  to  her 
own  room,  and,  locking  the  door  behind  her, 


DEAD   SELVES.  57 

stood  panting  and  trembling,  as  she  looked  ner 
vously  about  her.  Then,  with  an  inarticulate 
cry,  out  of  the  ignorance  and  helplessness  of  a 
heart  which  knew  not  itself  and  had  no  power  to 
help  itself,  she  threw  herself  down  upon  the  bed 
and  sobbed. 

Fraser,  meanwhile,  slept  on  unconscious. 
Profoundly  weary  in  body  and  in  mind,  his 
sleep  had  been  too  heavy  to  feel  any  influence 
from  that  presence  and  that  gaze.  When  he 
waked,  at  last,  it  was  very  late.  He  got  up 
and  went  to  bed,  without  so  much  as  a  thought 
of  Rhoda,  as  he  passed  her  door. 

But  Rhoda  heard  every  fall  of  that  light  foot 
step,  and  her  heart  beat  in  thick,  fast  throbs  at 
the  sound.  He  went  into  his  room  and  closed 
the  door.  Being  tired,  sleep  came  to  him  very 
quickly. 

Not  so  with  Rhoda.  She  passed  a  sleepless 
night.  A  new  companionship  had  come  into 
her  life,  an  insistent  and  disturbing  one,  but 
she  did  not  ask  its  name.  Analysis  of  motive 
and  of  emotion  was  unknown  to  her.  She 
knew  of  this  thing  only  that  it  was  pain,  and 
yet  a  pain  which  had  some  quality  which  was 
sweet.  Pain,  she  was  accustomed  to,  of  a  dense, 
dead  kind,  to  which  her  somewhat  slow  nature 


58  DEAD   SELVES. 

was  well  indurated,  but  this  was  a  sort  of  pain 
that  was  new.  It  had  a  poignancy  in  it  which 
tuned  her  nature  higher  than  it  had  ever  reached 
before, — to  a  pitch,  indeed,  that  almost  made 
her  feel  that  the  tense  cord  would  snap  and  life 
and  feeling  would  go  with  it. 


*  VII 

AS  the  carriage,  which  met  Rhoda  at  the 
station,  was  mounting  the  hill,  toward 
the  house  in  which  Fraser  had  been  born  and 
where  his  mother  still  lived,  she  was  not  with 
out  some  of  the  misgivings  which  had  beset  her 
husband  at  the  thought  of  this  visit. 

The  horses  were  old  and  lazy,  and  so  was 
the  coachman:  everything  about  her  had  an 
air  that  contrasted  strongly  with  the  exciting 
atmosphere  of  New  York  and  the  even  more 
stimulating  air  which  pervaded  the  laboratory 
at  Brockett.  On  the  porch,  which  was  covered 
with  vines  and  decorated  with  luxuriant  bloom 
ing  plants,  stood  Mrs.  Fraser,  waiting  to  wel 
come  Rhoda,  a  smile  on  her  fine  old  face, 
informing  it  with  as  mild  and  penetrating  a 
radiance  as  that  which  the  evening  star  imparts 
to  a  landscape. 

She  was  small  and  thin,  and  was  dressed  in 
the  plainest  black,  with  a  delicate  white  cap 
above  her  smoothly  parted  white  hair,  and  a 

59 


60  DEAD   SELVES. 

little  half-transparent  shawl  around  her  shoul 
ders,  which  did  not  conceal  the  fact  that  her 
figure  was  a  good  deal  bent. 

Her  whole  appearance  was  extremely  delicate, 
the  soft  skin  of  her  face  being  withered  like  a 
shrivelled  rose-leaf,  and  her  finely  modelled 
hands  wrinkled  and  wasted.  But  in  her  eyes 
there  shone  the  intelligence  of  perpetual  youth, 
and  the  splendid  brow  above  them  had  the 
visible  stamp  of  nobility  and  intellectual  power. 
Her  nose  was  straight,  strong,  and  decided,  and 
her  mouth,  moulded  by  character  rather  than 
by  heredity,  was  equally  expressive  of  humor, 
resolution,  and  tenderness. 

Rhoda,  who  was  not  a  keen  observer,  and 
who  had  little  faculty  for  making  deductions, 
saw  only  this, — a  strong  resemblance  to  Duncan 
Fraser  in  a  face  which  expressed  a  spontaneous 
affection  for  her !  She  had  the  sensations 
which  might  belong  to  a  young  bird  brooding 
over  its  first  nest  and  feeling  against  its  breast 
the  movements  in  the  little  eggs  and  the  faint 
pricking  of  their  shells.  Something  outside 
her  was  waking  up  her  dormant  self  and  giving 
her  a  strange  new  life  of  which  she  had  never 
dreamed. 

As  she  got  out  of  the  carriage  and  mounted 


DEAD   SELVES.  61 

the  steps,  she  felt  herself  clasped  in  tender 
arms  and  called  "my  daughter." 

How  strange  it  was  !  She  had  exactly  the 
sensation  which  she  had  sometimes  had  in 
dreams. 

"I  afn  so  sorry  that  Duncan  could  not 
come,"  the  old  lady  said,  keeping  her  hand  as 
she  led  her  through  the  wide  porch  and  into 
the  sweet  old-fashioned  house.  "It  would  do 
him  good  to  leave  his  laboratory  for  a  little 
while.  I'm  afraid  he  works  too  hard." 

"  I  fear  he  does,"  assented  Rhoda,  not  meet 
ing  her  companion's  eye,  but  looking  about  to 
right  and  left.  "What  a  beautiful,  charming 
old  house  !" 

"Very  old-fashioned  and  plain,  my  dear, 
compared  to  the  manner  in  which  people  live 
now.  It's  the  best  of  places  to  me,  for  all  the 
memories  of  my  life  are  in  it, — at  least  all  my 
married  life,  and  that  is  all  a  woman's  real  life. 
All  that  goes  before  is  an  anticipation,  and  all 
that  comes  after  a  reminiscence.  I  came  here 
a  happy  bride,  and  here  all  my  years  of  wife- 
hood  were  passed.  My  husband  died  in  this 
house,  but  he  also  lived  in  it,  and  that  glorifies 
it  to  me.  Three  dear  children  died  here  too, 
but  I  had  the  joy  of  them  for  a  little  while, 


62  DEAD  SELVES. 

and  I  have  the  knowledge  that  I  gave  them 
life,  not  only  for  time  but  for  eternity.  Here, 
too,  my  Duncan  was  born,  who  was  mine 
before  he  was  yours,  and  who  is  no  less  mine 
now  because  he  is  yours  also." 

Again  Rhoda  turned  away  her  eyes. 

"I  did  not  know  you  had  had  other  chil 
dren,"  she  said,  in  an  effort  to  change  the  subject. 

"What!  Is  it  possible  Duncan  never  told 
you  of  his  two  sisters  and  his  little  brother?" 

"Perhaps  I  have  forgotten,"  said  Rhoda, 
floundering  mentally.  She  felt  that  this  speech 
made  her  seem  indifferent,  if  not  rude,  but  she 
preferred  that  the  blame  should  fell  on  her 
rather  than  on  him. 

The  old  lady  did  not  answer.  They  had 
mounted  the  stairs,  and  she  was  leading  the 
way  into  one  of  the  large  upper  rooms. 

"I  have  given  you  Duncan's  room,"  she 
said,  "because  I  thought  you'd  like  that  best. 
It  has  the  old  furniture  which  he  used  from  the 
time  that  he  was  a  boy,  and  I  have,  from  time 
to  time,  hung  photographs  of  him  in  this  room. 
I  have  always  wanted  you  to  see  them,  my  dear, 
but  I  could  not  make  up  my  mind  to  let  them 
leave  their  places  as  long  as  I  lived.  Soon 
they  will  all  be  his  and  yours.  This  is  his  first 


DEAD  SELVES.  63 

picture,  taken  at  three  months.  How  he  laughs 
at  it!" 

Rhoda  was  compelled  to  look  at  it  and  to 
express  interest.  She  had  to  follow  the  fond 
mother  around  the  room  and  to  look  at  her 
adored  Son,  in  all  his  various  positions  and 
changes.  There  he  was  in  his  first  short  frock, 
with  his  hair  done  in  what  his  mother  called 
"  a  roach  ;"  there  on  his  Shetland  pony,  led  by 
a  groom ;  then  in  his  first  trousers ;  then  an 
ungainly  lad  in  knickerbockers ;  and  so  on,  up 
to  the  time  of  his  marriage. 

How  his  mother  glowed  with  interest,  as  she 
passed  from  one  to  another,  recalling  certain 
incidents  connected  with  each  !  Rhoda  listened 
with  attention,  asking  questions  and  making 
comments,  but  it  was  as  a  stranger  might  have 
done  who  was  interested  more  for  the  mother's 
sake  than  on  account  of  the  pictures  themselves 
or  the  being  whom  they  represented.  She  felt 
a  consciousness  of  this,  and  feared  that  she  was 
appearing  very  listless,  but  she  had  neither  the 
insincerity  nor  the  quickness  of  wit  to  play  a 
part  other  than  a  passive  one.  Still  she  felt 
that  this  dear  old  lady  would  perhaps  be 
wounded,  and  so  she  tried  to  stem  the  current 
of  her  reminiscences  by  an  excuse. 


64  DEAD   SELVES. 

"  I  am  very  tired,"  she  said.  "  The  journey 
was  fatiguing,  and  I  got  up  early 

"  Of  course.  How  thoughtless  of  me  !  You 
will  want  to  lie  down.  I  will  go  away  and  let 
you  rest." 

It  was  strange  to  contrast  the  two  women, — 
one  old  and  bent  and  feeble  in  frame,  and  yet 
with  the  strong  fire  of  fervid,  glowing  life  in 
every  lineament  of  her  face ;  the  other  young, 
erect,  superbly  strong  and  healthy,  but  with  an 
apathy  and  coldness  in  her  expression  which 
made  her  look  far  less  akin  to  life. 

''Don't  go,"  she  said,  in  answer  to  Mrs. 
Fraser's  last  words.  "  I  only  want  to  take  off 
this  stiff  dress  and  lie  down  and  rest.  Let  my 
maid  come  and  make  me  comfortable,  and  then 
you  stay  and  talk  to  me.  Haven't  I  come  all 
this  way  just  to  see  you  ?' ' 

The  faint  shadow  of  a  smile  crossed  Rhoda's 
face  as  she  spoke.  Her  wish  to  have  Mrs. 
Fraser  with  her  was  sincere.  She  felt  a  strong 
inclination  to  reach  out  and  cling  to  her,  but 
she  felt  she  must  avoid  that  one  topic,  for  the 
present  at  least. 

The  journey,  following  her  sleepless  night, 
had  made  her  tired  in  reality,  and  she  did  not 
feel  her  usual  power  of  self-control. 


DEAD   SELVES.  65 

"  Suppose  I  go  and  order  you  a  cup  of  tea, 
and  then  come  and  drink  it  with  you  here," 
said  the  old  lady;  "and  meantime  your  maid 
can  wait  on  you.  She  is  unpacking  your  trunk 
now  in  the  dressing-room.  Shall  I  send  her 
here  ?fl 

"  Let  me  go  myself,"  said  Rhoda,  "and  we 
can  send  her  to  order  the  tea.  You  don't  sup 
pose  I  am  going  to  allow  you  to  wait  on  me 
like  this?" 

"Then  you  will  be  depriving  me  of  one  of 
my  greatest  pleasures  !  I  have  never  been  idle 
or  inactive  in  my  life,  and  it  would  make  me 
wretched  to  be  so.  I  am  occupied,  in  some 
way,  all  the  time,  and  it  is  a  rare  delight  to  me 
now  to  have  some  one  near  and  dear  to  me  to 
wait  upon.  For  next  to  my  Duncan  comes  my 
Duncan's  wife  !" 

She  hurried  away  with  a  light  and  active  step. 
It  seemed  to  Rhoda  that  the  radiance  of  her 
smile  and  gaze  inhabited  the  room  after  she 
had  left  it.  She  must  have  been  quite  seventy, 
and  yet  about  her  there  was  an  atmosphere  of  a 
youth  more  subtle  than  that  of  childhood. 


VIII 

WHEN,  a  little  later,  Mrs.  Fraser  returned, 
followed  by  a  servant  with  the  tea-tray, 
the  room  had  undergone  a  metamorphosis.  Its 
prim  stateliness  was  as  if  decorated  by  spots  of 
soft  color,  from  the  various  accessories  to  her 
mistresses's  toilet  which  Rhoda's  maid  had 
strewn  about.  Poor  Rhoda,  if  she  had  mas 
tered  no  other  art  in  life,  had  learned  that  of 
being  luxurious,  aided  by  a  maid  who  had 
studied  it  as  a  profession  and  had  reduced  it  to 
a  science. 

As  Mrs.  Fraser  returned  to  the  room,  the 
maid  was  engaged  in  the  work  of  plaiting  her 
lady's  long  hair,  as  the  latter  sat  before  her  in 
a  straight  chair,  clad  in  a  gown  that  might  have 
been  made  out  of  that  May-day  sky  and 
trimmed  with  its  fleecy  clouds.  Rhoda  wore 
all  these  exquisite  things  as  simply  as  a  bird  its 
feathers,  and  was  quite  without  any  conscious 
ness  of  them  now. 

The  old  lady,  however,  whose  susceptibilities 
66 


DEAD  SELVES.  67 

for  everything  were  keen,  took  in  every  detail 
with  a  rapid  glance,  and  smiled.  It  was  not 
the  smile  of  age  extenuating  the  frivolities  of 
youth,  but  of  frank  enjoyment  of  such  beautiful 
things. 

"  Wnat  a  delicious  smell !"  she  said,  breath 
ing  in  the  violet-like  odor  of  orris-root  which 
the  unpacking  had  disseminated  through  the 
room.  "  And,  my  dear,  what  charming  things  ! 
You  must  allow  an  old  woman,  who  does  not 
often  have  such  a  chance,  to  admire  them. 
Ah,  how  delightful  all  .this  must  be  to  Duncan  ! 
He  had  always  such  a  love  for  what  was  soft  and 
fine  and  beautiful,  until  these  scientific  experi 
ments,  with  all  their  dirty  mess,  got  more 
attractive  to  him." 

She  smiled,  a  happy  smile  of  pride  in  him, 
as  she  sat  down  and  began  to  make  the  tea. 

Rhoda,  meanwhile,  had  dismissed  her  maid, 
and  the  two  were  alone. 

"  I  could  not  eat  much  on  the  train,"  she 
said,  "  and  what  I  did  eat  has  given  me  a  head 
ache.  This  tea  will  be  so  good  for  me,  and  it 
is  so  sweet  for  us  to  drink  it  together." 

She  drew  a  chair  up  near  to  the  tea-table, 
and  sat  down  in  it,  crushing  the  end  of  her 
plait  and  its  blue  ribbon  bow  beneath  her. 


68  DEAD   SELVES. 

"Oh,  don't  mash  that  lovely  blue  bow!" 
said  the  old  lady,  protestingly,  and  Rhoda, 
laughing,  drew  the  plait  aside,  so  that  it  hung 
over  one  shoulder. 

"  What  splendid  hair  you  have,  my  dear  !  I 
always  loved  a  woman  to  have  luxuriant  hair, 
and  so  did  Duncan." 

"  I  have  almost  too  much  to  look  well  in  the 
present  style,"  said  Rhoda,  ignoring  her  last 
words;  "but  my  maid  is  very  clever  with  it. 
I  wear  it  down  whenever  I  want  to  be  really 
comfortable.  I  have  headache  a  good  deal." 

"  Does  your  head  ache  now,  my  child?  Lie 
down,  if  it  does,  and  let  me  stroke  it.  Don't 
you  like  having  your  head  stroked?" 

"I've  never  tried  it,"  Rhoda  said,  forgetting 
that  there  was  an  unintentional  confession  in 
the  words.  "  Do  give  me  another  cup  of  your 
delicious  tea.  It  deserves  its  reputation,  I  find  ! 
I  have  often  heard  Mr.  Fraser  say  that  no  one's 
tea  was  equal  to  yours." 

"Mr.  Fraser!"  said  the  old  lady,  in  laugh 
ing  protest.  "  Why,  surely  you  need  not  be  so 
very  formal  with  me,  my  dear.  It  sounds  odd 
for  you  to  call  him  that  to  me." 

"I  have  never  called  him  by  his  Christian 
name,"  said  Rhoda,  speaking  with  an  effort  at 


DEAD   SELVES.  69 

naturalness,  as  she  selected  a  lump  of  sugar. 
"  Somehow  '  Duncan'  sounds  almost  too  famil 
iar  for  any  one  but  his  mother  to  call  him. 
You  see,"  she  added,  smiling,  "he  has  im 
pressed  me,  as  he  impresses  others,  with  a  great 
idea  of  his  dignity  and  importance." 

"  Well,  dear,  of  course  you  and  he  know 
best,"  answered  the  old  lady;  and  Rhoda,  glad 
to  make  a  diversion,  put  down  her  cup  and  said, 
inquiringly : 

"Do  you  really  mean  me  to  lie  down,  while 
you  sit  up  and  talk  to  me  ?  I  am  ashamed  to  be 
so  lazy.  Do  let  me  give  the  lounge  to  you." 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,  my  dear.  I  have  never  had 
the  habit  of  lying  down  in  the  daytime.  It 
would  crush  my  cap  !  And  I  have  no  soft 
lounging-gowns  like  yours.  But  come,  I  want 
to  see  you  rest.  I  think  the  young,  as  a  rule, 
need  rest  far  more  than  the  old.  The  mind 
wearies  one  more  than  the  body,  and  generally 
the  minds  of  the  young  have  much  to  harass 
and  burden  them.  Age,  it  has  always  seemed 
to  me,  is  the  real  time  of  happiness.  It  may 
be  sad,  perhaps,  to  leave  the  keenness  of  youth 
behind  one,  but  I  think  one  gets  something 
better  in  its  place.  I  love  to  think  that  in  the 
life  beyond,  we  shall  take  a  fresh  start,  equipped 


70  DEAD   SELVES. 

with  all  the  knowledge  and  experience  that  we 
have  gained  in  this,  and  not,  as  some  maintain, 
be  in  a  state  in  which  we  will  have  no  use  for 
them." 

Rhoda  had  thrown  her  graceful  body  at 
length  upon  the  lounge.  Her  slender  feet  were 
crossed  at  the  instep,  as  she  lay  on  her  back,  with 
her  hands — ringless,  except  for  a  gold  band  on 
the  marriage  finger — lying  lightly  folded. 

If  she  was  unconscious  of  herself  and  of  her 
loveliness,  her  companion  was  not  so.  She  sat, 
in  the  pause  which  had  followed  her  last  words, 
looking  at  the  figure  on  the  lounge  with  evident 
relish  and  appreciation.  Rhoda  was  certainly 
an  object  lovely  to  look  upon,  and  more  so  than 
ever  in  this  moment.  Those  last  suggestive 
words  had  fed  a  newly  wakened  appetite  within 
her  for  a  sort  of  food  which  she  had  never 
tasted  before,  and  had  never  even  hungered  for. 
Who,  until  this  hour,  had  ever  spoken  to  her 
of  the  life  to  come,  so  as  to  make  it  seem  a 
reality  to  her, — a  place  for  hope  and  longing  to 
rest  upon  ? 

"And  yet,"  she  said,  eager  to  lead  her  com 
panion  on  to  say  more,  "we  are  generally  told 
that  youth  is  the  precious  time,  the  time  of  joy 
and  opportunity." 


DEAD   SELVES.  71 

"Of  joy,  in  one  sense,  so  it  is;  I  do  not 
underrate  that  delight  which  belongs  to  '  the 
wild  freshness  of  morning;'  but,  looking  back 
on  all  the  stages  of  life,  as  I  do  now,  age  seems 
to  me  the  best,  except  for  one  thing, — the  thing 
you  ITave  already  mentioned.  I  mean  the  op 
portunities  of  youth.  Age  has  its  opportunities 
too,  but  these  are  mostly  for  the  benefit  of  others. 
Youth  is  the  time  for  opportunities  for  our 
selves." 

She  paused,  and  Rhoda,  though  reluctant  to 
speak  herself,  felt  that  she  must  go  on,  in  order 
to  get  her  companion  to  say  more.  So  she 
said: 

"  Do  you  mean  opportunities  of  getting  pleas 
ure  for  ourselves  ?' ' 

"Pleasure?  No,  child.  At  my  age  pleasure 
is  not  one  of  the  first  considerations  of  life :  or 
perhaps  I  should  say  that  pleasure  is  not  the 
same  thing  that  it  is  to  the  young." 

"Then  what  sort  of  opportunities  do  you 
mean  ?' ' 

"Opportunities  of  wise  selection,  my  child, 
— of  choosing  to  do  right,  instead  of  wrong, 
when  the  right  path  is  the  hard  and  painful  one 
and  the  wrong  path  easy  and  pleasant.  These 
are  the  opportunities  for  one's  self  which  settle 


72  DEAD   SELVES. 

the  destinies  of  others, — which  add  to  the  store 
of  light  and  strength  in  the  world,  by  which 
others  may  see  and  endure.  In  such  oppor 
tunities  as  this,  youth  is  richer  than  age,  and  its 
influence  is  weightier.  People  say,  and  say 
naturally,  that  it  is  easy  enough  for  the  old  to 
be  self-denying  and  patient,  when  life  is  behind 
them  ;  but  when  the  young  are  willing  to  give 
up  and  able  to  endure,  with  life  still  ahead  of 
them,  the  influence  is  far  more  potent,  both  for 
the  good  of  others  and  for  their  own  souls. 
These  are  the  only  opportunities  of  youth  that 
I  could  wish  back  again,"  she  added,  with  a 
greater  earnestness.  "There  are  some  choices 
and  decisions  of  my  life  which  I  would  gladly 
undo  if  I  could,  but  there  are  others — one  or 
two,  at  least — which  sweeten  old  age,  as  they 
will  sweeten  eternity,  for  me." 

Rhoda'seyes  had  been  fastened  on  her  eagerly, 
absorbing  every  word  with  breathless  interest. 
Her  color  had  risen ;  her  eyes  sparkled. 

"Have  I  talked  too  much,  my  dear?"  said 
her  companion.  "You  look  as  if  you  might 
be  feverish.  Suppose  I  go  now  and  let  you 
rest." 

"Oh, no, no,"saidRhoda,  insistently.  "Stay 
with  me  and  talk  to  me.  No  one  has  ever  spoken 


DEAD   SELVES.  73 

to  me  like  this,  in  all  my  life.  If  you  would 
have  great  patience  with  me  and  show  me  how, 
I  might  be  different  from  what  I  am.  I  might 
be  a  good  woman  myself,  and  help  others.  And, 
oh,  when  I  hear  you  talk,  it  makes  me  feel  that 
I  shouW  like  to  be!" 

These  words  and  tones  awakened  in  Mrs. 
Fraser  a  wonder  which  it  cost  her  an  effort  to 
conceal.  She  was  careful,  though,  to  do  noth 
ing  which  might  check  Rhoda's  freeness  of 
speech,  and  so,  taking  one  of  her  smoothly 
modelled,  firm  young  hands  into  hers,  she 
stroked  it  gently,  saying,  with  great  tender 
ness: 

"  You  have  never  had  a  mother  before,  my 
poor  dear  child ;  but  you've  got  a  mother  now." 

In  an  instant  Rhoda  had  sprung  upright,  and 
had  thrown  her  arms  around  the  other's  thin  and 
wasted  form. 

"Oh,  be  my  mother?  Take  me  for  your 
child! "she  cried.  "I  want  to  be  good.  I 
want  to  do  right,  but  I  have  been  cruel,  selfish, 
wicked  ! — and  I  can  never  be  any  better,  unless 
you  show  me  how,  and  love  me,  and  believe  in 
me,  and  help  me  to  believe  in  myself." 

The  arms  around  her  were  weak  and  frail, 
but  they  held  her  close,  and  kisses  of  warm 


74  DEAD   SELVES. 

tenderness  fell  thick  on  hair  and  eyes  and 
cheeks. 

"Tell  me  what  this  trouble  is,  my  child," 
the  old  woman  said.  "  It  cannot  be  anything 
that  can  make  me  feel  that  you  are  other  than 
my  child,  as  long  as  you  come  to  me  for  help 
and  guidance.  Don't  be  afraid  to  tell  me,  no 
matter  what  it  may  be." 

She  spoke  with  great  solemnity,  for  she  felt 
that  the  moment  was  an  important  one.  She 
had  invited  a  confession  from  her  son's  wife, 
and  had  promised  to  take  the  part  of  a  mother 
to  her,  but  all  her  heart  was  roused  to  fear,  as 
she  waited  to  hear  what  this  confession  might 
be. 

"  One  question  first,  my  child,"  she  said,  her 
lips  close  to  the  bent  head  that  leaned  against 
her.  "  Could  you  not  take  this  trouble  to  your 
husband  ?  Would  it  not  be  better  to  speak  of 
it  first  to  him?" 

"Oh,  I  couldn't!  I  never,  never  could!" 
she  cried.  "  He  is  the  last  person  in  all  the 
world  to  whom  I  could  speak  of  it." 

"Then  tell  it  freely  and  fully  to  me,  and  I 
will  help  you,"  was  the  strong  response.  The 
mother- heart  was  full  of  love,  but  it  was  full  of 
justice  too,  and  if  Duncan,  as  she  half  divined, 


DEAD  SELVES.  75 

had  neglected  his  young  wife  and  failed  to  take 
her  sorrows  and  perplexities  and  make  them  his 
own,  putting  his  work  before  his  duty  as  a  hus 
band,  no  one  could  be  more  ready  to  judge 
and  to  condemn  him  for  it  than  was  his  own 
motlfer. 

In  spite  of  those  words  of  loving  encourage 
ment,  Rhoda  remained  silent.  She  clung  about 
the  older  woman's  neck,  as  a  child  might  have 
done  who  was  conscious  of  some  wrong  and  was 
ashamed  to  show  its  face. 

"You  will  be  good  to  me?"  she  whispered. 
"  You  will  forgive  me,  and  try  to  help  me  ?  It 
will  seem,  to  you  of  all  the  women  in  the  world, 
a  most  dreadful  thing  that  I  have  done." 

At  these  words  the  older  woman  felt  the 
strong  heart  within  her  contract,  but  she  an 
swered  promptly  and  most  tenderly  : 

"  Speak  to  me  freely  and  without  fear,  my 
daughter.  I  will  be  to  you  all  that  your  own 
mother  could  be  now,  God  helping  me." 

"It  is  because  of  that  great  and  wonderful 
mother-feeling  in  you,"  Rhoda  said,  "that  I 
dare  to  speak  to  you  now,  and  yet,  for  that  very 
reason,  you  will  see  and  feel  my  wrong-doing  as 
no  one  else  on  earth  could.  I  am  going  to  tell 
you,  though,  and  you  will  help  me.  You  have 


76  DEAD   SELVES. 

already  helped  me  to  see  more  plainly  something 
that  has  been  glimmering  before  my  eyes  for 
weeks  now ;  but  I  could  not  get  any  help,  until 
I  thought  of  you.  When  I  came  to  you  I  did 
not  think  I  would  tell  you  this  thing, — only  try 
to  get  some  help  and  some  direction,  without 
that;  but  you  are  better  and  dearer  than  I 
thought,  and  I  feel  that  I  must  tell  you,  and 
perhaps,  cruel  and  wrong  as  I  have  been,  you 
will  forgive  me  and  help  me." 

"  I  will  indeed,  my  child.  Try  to  feel  as  if 
I  were  your  real  mother,  who  cared  for  you  as 
a  baby,  when  you  were  a  poor,  helpless  little 
thing " 

"  Don't !— don't !"  cried  Rhoda.  "  You  are 
making  it  harder  and  harder  for  me.  I  do  not 
understand  that  mother-love.  I  am  too  cold 
and  hard  and  unnatural ;  but  oh, — though  you 
do  not  know  it,  though  I  have  forgotten  it  my 
self  and  fought  against  the  memory  of  it, — I  am 
a  mother  too." 

Even  in  that  crucial  instant,  Mrs.  Fraser  felt, 
piercing  the  consciousness  of  her  horror  and 
pain,  a  satisfaction  in  the  fact  that  her  face  was 
hidden  from  her  companion.  It  was  some  sec 
onds  before  she  could  reply,  and  then  her  voice 
was  calm  and  tender,  as  she  said : 


DEAD   SELVES.  77 

"  Tell  me  about  it.  Tell  me  the  worst  there 
is  to  tell." 

"  I  am  a  mother,"  Rhoda  repeated,  her  face 
still  hid  against  the  other's  breast,  "  though  a 
neglectful  and  unnatural  one.  My  child  is  five 
years  old,  and  I  have  never  seen  its  face  but 
once." 

"  Five  years  !     Does  Duncan  know  ?" 

"He  did  know  once.  Whether  he  knows 
now  that  it  is  living,  I  cannot  say.  He  knew 
of  its  birth,  and  he  knew  its  father.  It  was  with 
the  full  knowledge  of  both  of  these  that  he 
asked  me  to  marry  him.  I  have  practised  no 
deception  on  him." 

For  the  second  time  her  companion  had  occa 
sion  to  be  glad  that  her  face  was  concealed,  but 
this  time  it  was  a  look  of  relief  from  a  horrible 
fear,  which  she  would  have  shrunk  from  having 
seen. 

"Tell  me.  Speak  freely  to  me,  my  child," 
she  said  ;  and,  so  encouraged,  Rhoda  went  on  : 

"  They  have  never  told  you,  then,  that  during 
my  first  marriage  a  child  was  born, — a  girl. 
For  many  days  they  would  not  let  me  see  it, 
and  I  felt  the  reason  why.  When,  at  last,  it 
could  be  kept  from  me  no  longer,  I  looked. 
Oh,  poor  little  horrible  thing "  She  broke 


78  DEAD   SELVES. 

off,  clinging  closer  to  that  sweet  old  figure,  and 
speaking  through  blinding  tears.  "  Something, 
I  don't  know  what,  has  waked  a  new  feeling  for 
my  child  in  my  heart,  and  every  moment  that  I 
am  with  you  that  feeling  deepens.  I  can  pity  it 
now,  but  until  now  I  have  never  had  anything 
but  loathing  for  it." 

"It  was  deformed,  poor  baby?"  said  the 
other,  gently. 

"  Yes,  deformed  in  body,  with  no  hope  of 
being  anything  but  imbecile  in  mind,  the  doc 
tors  said.  They  told  me  what  to  do  with  it, 
and  I  was  glad  to  take  their  advice.  It  was 
sent  to  an  asylum,  and  I  have  never  seen  it 
since.  I  have  tried  not  to  think  of  it,  and  at 
first  I  succeeded,  though  at  times  the  thought 
that  it  was  mine,  that  I  was  responsible  for  its 
miserable  existence,  would  trouble  me,  but  al 
ways  I  shook  it  off.  Lately  I  cannot  do  this. 
The  thought  of  it  haunts  me,  and,  oh,  at  last  a 
change  has  come  to  my  hard  heart,  and  I  do 
not  want  to  forget.  I  want  to  do  my  duty  by 
my  child.  I  am  its  mother.  Perhaps  they  let 
it  suffer  at  that  place,  and  I  could  save  it  that, 
at  least.  Now  that  my  conscience  and  my  heart 
have  waked  at  last,  you  will  help  me  to  do  right 
and  to  be  a  better  woman,  will  you  not  ?  I  want 


DEAD   SELVES.  79 

to, — oh,  I  want  it  intensely, — but  I  don't  know 
how." 

"You  will  know  now,  my  dear  daughter. 
The  will  that  is  aroused  within  you  will  point 
the  wayt  Thank  God,  we  can  throw  the  past 
behind  us,  when  we  set  our  feet  in  the  right 
path,  and  what  you  have  it  in  your  power  to  do 
now  will  be  a  full  atonement.  The  thing  that 
you  have  done  would  not  be  called  wicked 
or  cruel  by  the  world;  but  if  it  seems  so  to 
you,  you  must  make  haste  to  change  it.  What 
is  it  that  you  want  now  to  do?" 

"It  is  not  what  I  want,  for  I  shrink  from  it 
even  yet.  It  is  what  I  must  do  !  I  must  take 
that  poor  little  creature  home  and  keep  it  near 
me,  and  see  that  everything  which  care  and 
thought  can  do  to  help  its  poor  life  is  done.  I 
have  sent  a  doctor  at  regular  intervals  to  visit  it 
and  make  me  a  report,  and  he  always  tells  me 
that  everything  is  being  done,  but  that  the  case 
is  quite  hopeless,  as  there  is  absolutely  no  intel 
ligence  to  work  upon.  He  says  only  its  physical 
comfort  can  be  ministered  to,  and  that,  surely, 
I  can  do  as  well  as  others, — for  I  am  its  mother. 
I  have  known  that  fact  and  acknowledged  it,  of 
course,  but  it  is  only  lately  that  I  can  feel  it,  and 
with  it  I  feel  the  sense  of  being  so  selfish,  so 


8o  DEAD   SELVES. 

cruel,  so  wicked.  You  forgive  me,  though, 
don't  you,  and  care  for  me  in  spite  of  it,  and 
you  will  be  kind  to  me  and  love  me  and  hold 
me  up  in  what  I  am  going  to  do?" 

"  That  I  will,  my  darling  !" 

When  had  poor  Rhoda  heard  this  word  ap 
plied  to  her  before  ?  Probably  never.  At  the 
sound  of  it,  her  heart  melted,  and,  clinging 
closer  yet  to  the  old  woman's  neck,  she  burst 
into  violent  sobbing. 

Mrs.  Fraser  made  no  effort  to  check  those 
sobs  and  tears,  but  let  the  paroxysm  spend  itself 
upon  her  breast,  patting  her  gently,  smoothing 
her  hair,  and  speaking  loving  words  to  her.  At 
last  she  tenderly  laid  the  poor  tired  head  back 
upon  the  pillow,  and,  taking  her  own  handker 
chief,  wiped  the  tear-drenched  face  and  kissed 
the  weary  eyes.  The  lids  had  softly  dropped 
and  covered  them,  and  Rhoda  felt  that  it  would 
be  sweet  to  keep  them  forever  closed  to  this  sad 
life,  and  to  pass  away  from  this  weary  world 
with  such  precious  words  and  tones  to  comfort 
her  poor  starved  heart. 

Fearing  that  she  had  fainted,  Mrs.  Fraser  went 
to  the  dressing-table,  and,  bringing  cologne, 
gently  mopped  and  stroked  the  hot  temples. 
Presently  Rhoda  opened  her  eyes  with  a  smile. 


DEAD   SELVES.  81 

"  Oh,  how  good  you  are  ! — how  good  !"  she 
said.  "I  am  very  miserable,  and  yet  I'm  happy 
too." 

''You  can  be  happy  within,  my  darling,  no 
matter  how  miserable  you  are  without.  Do 
your  duty,  in  the  highest  way  that  your  soul 
perceives  it,  and  help  the  hard  lives  of  others, 
and  you  will  have  a  joy  that  nothing  can  take 
away  from  you." 

"And  oh,"  said  Rhoda,  fervently,  "there  is 
one  thought  that  will  be  forever  a  joy  to  me. 
It  is  that  just  when  my  child  finds  its  mother,  I 
have  found  mine." 

"Then  you  must  learn  to  call  her  by  her 
name.  I  want  to  hear  you  say  it." 

"Mother,"  said  Rhoda,  in  a  voice  of  low- 
toned  fervor ;  "  God  bless  you,  mother  !" 

It  was  the  first  time  that  such  words  had  ever 
crossed  her  lips.  A  stirring  of  the  love  of  God 
had  come  to  her  heart  with  its  first  wakening  to 
the  love  of  man. 

"  That  word  spoken  between  us,"  Mrs.  Fraser 
said,  solemnly,  "makes  you  my  child  indeed, 
and  I  am  going  to  speak  to  you  as  my  own 
child,  and  ask  you  this  question.  Why  have 
you  not  talked  these  things  over  with  your 
husband?" 

6 


82  DEAD   SELVES. 

At  these  words  Rhoda's  face  grew  suddenly 
tense  and  grave.  There  was  no  expression  of 
child-like  appeal  in  it  now,  but  a  look  of  con 
scious  strength,  as  she  said : 

"Not  even  to  you,  my  own  mother,  can  I 
quite  tell  that.  You  will  not  misunderstand  or 
think  it  any  lack  of  confidence  or  love,  will 
you  ?' ' 

"  No,  no,  child, — indeed  no  !  Only,  if  Dun 
can,  who  ought  to  be  your  friend,  your  guide, 
your  counsellor,  has  failed  in  his  duty  to  you 
here,  the  person  to  point  it  out  to  him  is  his 
mother. ' ' 

"  He  has  not  failed.  He  has  been  blameless 
in  it  all.  He  has  fulfilled  every  obligation  that 
could  possibly  be  his.  You  must  take  my  word 
for  this.  Oh,  mother  dear,  my  own  sweet 
mother,  all  of  a  woman's  heart  cannot  be  bared 
to  any  one,  not  even  to  the  mother  whom  she 
loves.  One  promise  you  must  make  me,  and 
keep,  as  your  sacred  word  of  honor.  It  is  that, 
as  to  what  lies  between  your  son  and  me,  you 
will  not  interfere.  I  am  bound  to  say  this  to 
you,  and  I  must  say  it  once  for  all,  as  I  cannot 
bear  to  speak  of  it  again.  He  has  been  and  he 
is  all  that  he  ought  to  be  to  me.  There  is  no 
obligation  to  me  that  he  has  ever  left  unfulfilled. 


DEAD   SELVES.  83 

You  must  take  my  word  for  that.  If  our  rela 
tions  to  each  other  do  not  exactly  accord  with 
your  ideas  of  marriage,  you  must  remember  the 
difference  in  human  characters  and  lives  and 
lots.  Even  your  gentle  hand,  my  mother,  must 
not  be  laid  upon  this  place.  I  want  you  to 
understand  how  solemnly  I  mean  this.  Re 
member  that  you  have  my  word  for  it  that,  in 
his  relations  to  me,  he  is  all  that  I  ask,  all  that 
he  ought  to  be.  You  will  respect  my  wish  about 
this,  mother,  will  you  not  ?" 

' '  Yes,  Rhoda,  yes.  I  have  always  held  that 
it  was  wrong  and  impious  for  others,  no  matter 
how  near  the  ties  of  love  or  kinship,  to  intrude 
upon  the  sacred  ground  of  marriage, — particu 
larly  when  their  counsel  is  not  asked.  But  you 
must  make  me  a  promise  also,  my  dear.  If  you 
ever  feel  differently, — if  the  day  ever  comes  that 
you  want  help  or  advice, — I  want  you  to  promise 
to  come  for  it  to  your  husband's  mother.  You 
will  do  this?" 

"  I  promise  it,  if  that  day  should  ever  come ; 
but  you  must  not  make  yourself  anxious  and 
unhappy  without  cause.  Try  to  believe  me 
that  all  is  right, — that  I  have  nothing  to  com 
plain  of  in  your  son, — that  he  has  faithfully  and 
fully  discharged  his  every  obligation  to  me. 


84  DEAD   SELVES. 

And  now  you  agree  with  me — do  you  not  ? — 
that  we  will  not  speak  of  this  again." 

She  had  perfectly  recovered  her  self-control, 
and  the  conversation  ended  here,  with  feelings 
of  confidence  and  affection  in  both  the  old 
heart  and  the  young. 


IX 


THE  habit  of  reserve  was  so  confirmed  in 
Rhoda  that  after  that  one  full  and  open 
talk  with  Mrs.  Fraser  she  relapsed  more  or  less 
into  her  former  manner,  though  it  was  tinged 
now  with  the  softening  influence  of  affection 
and  confidence.  She  was  reticent  both  by 
nature  and  habit,  and  only  some  great  inward 
upheaval,  such  as  the  one  which  had  just  taken 
place,  could  shake  her  out  of  that  state.  This, 
added  to  the  fact  that  Mrs.  Fraser  was  a  person 
of  quick  intuitions  and  great  tact,  made  it  seem 
natural,  after  that  one  talk,  that  they  should  fall 
into  a  more  formal  attitude  toward  each  other. 
Indeed,  they  both  felt  this  to  be  inevitable,  for 
unrestricted  confidence  between  them  was  im 
possible  without  entering  into  the  question 
which  they  had  agreed  to  avoid.  As  to  that 
question  Mrs.  Fraser  had  many  and  deep  mis 
givings,  but  she  had  given  her  promise  not  to 
interfere,  and  the  wisdom  of  that  pledge  she 
could  not  doubt. 

After  dinner  that  evening  Mrs.  Fraser  led  the 

85 


86  DEAD   SELVES. 

way  into  the  drawing-room,  and,  opening  the 
piano,  asked  Rhoda  for  some  music. 

"How  did  you  know  that  I  could  play?" 
said  Rhoda.  "I  didn't  think  any  one  knew  it." 

Here  was  another  admission  ! 

"It  seems  to  me  natural  that  you  should," 
was  the  answer,  "  and  I  love  music  so  that  I 
suppose  the  wish  prompted  the  thought." 

"  I  took  lessons  long  ago,  and  had  some  talent 
for  it,  I  suppose,  but  I  never  played,  as  people 
must  play  to  be  listened  to  nowadays :  so  I 
never  attempt  it.  Lately,  however,  I  have  been 
practising,  when  I  knew  that  no  one  was  within 
hearing :  so  perhaps  I  can  give  you  a  little 
pleasure.  I  hope  so." 

The  piano  was  near  an  open  window  which 
gave  a  view  of  the  moonlit  lawn  and  flower 
beds.  An  odor  of  mignonette  was  wafted  in, 
and  Rhoda  felt  the  atmosphere,  both  within  and 
without,  to  be  full  of  peace  and  calm.  A  little 
of  the  same  feeling  had  crept  into  her  heart  and 
expressed  itself  in  the  music  that  she  played. 

There  was  no  doubt  that  she  had  a  sympa 
thetic  and  delighted  audience.  Mrs.  Eraser's 
vivid  and  expressive  face  glowed  with  a  fine 
feeling,  and  she  made  Rhoda  play  on  and  on, 
until  at  last  her  hands  were  exhausted,  though 


DEAD   SELVES.  87 

her  spirit  was  refreshed,  as  it  had  not  been  for 
many  a  day,  by  the  subtle  stimulant  of  giving 
pleasure.  This  was  a  thing  of  which  Rhoda  as 
yet  knew  but  little. 

"  H6*w  sweet  it  is  to  play  to  you  !"  she  said, 
as  she  came  and  seated  herself  on  the  lounge 
beside  the  old  lady,  who  sat  erect  in  one  corner 
of  it.  "I  am  not  much  of  a  musician,  but  I 
see  that  I  can  play  enough  to  give  you  pleasure, 
and  that  is  a  rare  pleasure  to  me. ' ' 

Another  admission ! 

"  Now  you  must  play  for  me,"  said  Rhoda. 
"I  have  heard  your  son  say  that  you  have  never 
given  up  your  music,  and  that,  to  this  day,  it  is 
the  sweetest  in  the  world  to  him." 

At  these  words  the  old  lady  gave  a  little  sound, 
which  might  have  been  construed  into  a  protest ; 
but  if  Rhoda  heard  it,  she  did  not  take  in  its 
meaning,  as  her  eyes  followed  the  slight  figure 
to  the  piano. 

It  was  delightful  to  hear  Mrs.  Fraser  play,  and 
it  was  almost  more  so  to  watch  her  as  she  played. 
Of  her  repertoire  she  had  retained  only  a  few 
old  melodies,  which  she  knew  literally  by  heart, 
and  these  she  played  with  admirable  spirit  and 
sentiment.  She  had  an  unconscious  habit  of 
emphasizing  with  her  head,  so  that  when  her 


88  DEAD   SELVES. 

fingers  struck  an  emphatic  chord  she  hit  it  off 
also  with  a  nod,  and  when  the  tune  was  slow 
and  wistful  her  head  swayed  tenderly  to  and 
fro,  and  her  eyes  grew  dreamy.  Who  could 
fail  to  feel  music  so  profoundly  felt  by  its  per 
former?  Rhoda  was  infinitely  charmed  by  it 
and  by  her,  and  said,  as  she  ceased  playing  and 
returned  to  her  place  on  the  lounge  : 

"  I  must  have  you  in  New  York,  mother ;  or, 
rather,  New  York  must  have  you.  What  a  social 
success  you  would  be  !  I  think  the  world,  in 
all  its  great  centres,  is  getting  very  impatient  of 
the  commonplace,  and  must  have  intrinsic  char 
acter  of  some  sort  in  those  whom  it  takes  for  its 
favorites.  It  is  commonplace  itself  to  a  degree 
that  would  soon  weary  you ;  but  I  fancy,  if  you 
could  be  seen  and  heard  at  the  piano,  dressed 
in  that  cap  and  kerchief,  playing  '  Believe  me, 
if  all  those  endearing  young  charms,'  with  just 
that  expression  in  your  music  and  in  your  face, 
you  would  become  a  popular  darling  on  the 
spot ;  that  is,  if  you  would  not  too  much  de 
spise  the  frivolities  and  worldliness  by  which 
you  would  find  yourself  surrounded." 

"Despise  them,  my  child?  No,  no!"  said 
the  old  lady.  "I  never  have  that  impulse. 
Who  could  feel  anything  but  pity  for  the  poor 


DEAD   SELVES.  89 

beings  who  have  not  the  glorious  goal  of  a 
happy  eternity  to  look  forward  to  ?  To  those 
who  have  only  this  life  to  enjoy,  with  its  paltry 
results,  I  feel  a  sort  of  tenderness  when  I  see 
them  trying  to  do  the  best  they  can  to  get 
something  out  of  their  little  steam-yachts,  and 
houses  at  Newport,  and  fine  carriages  and  dia 
monds  and  clothes  !  Poor  things  ! — it  always 
touches  me,  and  I  think  it's  really  sweet  of  them 
to  care  so  much  for  those  little  trifles." 

Rhoda  smiled,  with  a  bright  interest,  at  these 
words. 

"  But,  for  my  own  part,"  the  old  lady  went 
on,  "  I  have  done  with  the  world,  in  that 
sense.  This  old  place  is  my  world  now,  and 
it  is  enough.  I  have  my  flowers  and  my  dairy 
and  my  garden.  My  servants,  too,  are  like  a 
family,  and  I  am  personally  interested  in  each 
one,  and  in  my  neighbors.  Then  I  have  my 
charity  work,  and  then  my  books, — old  favor 
ites  which  I  read  over  and  over.  Better  than 
all,  I  have  my  memories  of  the  past  and  my 
hopes  of  the  future  and  of  reunion  with  my 
husband  and  children.  I  have  my  dear  son,  too, 
to  think  about, — and  now  my  dear  daughter, 
also." 

Rhoda  thanked  her  with  a  look  of  love. 


90  DEAD   SELVES. 

"It  must  be  hard  for  you  to  be  so  much 
separated  from  your  son,"  she  said. 

"No,  dear;  I  feel  that  I  have  him,  in  the 
best  sense,  when  I  know  that  he  is  doing  well, 
and  developing  the  great  gifts  which  God  has 
committed  to  his  trust,  and  living  the  life  that 
affords  the  richest  opportunities.  I  can  satisfy 
myself  with  happy  thoughts  of  him,  and  enjoy 
him  far  more  than  if  I  kept  him  here  to  the 
hinderance  of  his  career,  or  followed  him  about, 
to  be  a  burden  to  him.  I  know  he  loves  me, — 
all  his  life  has  been  a  proof  of  that, — so  I  am 
satisfied  and  happy  to  have  him  away  from  me  a 
great  deal.  The  old  should  help  the  young  all 
they  can,  and  burden  them  as  little.  Youth  is 
the  time  of  struggle,  when  spiritual  need  is 
strongest  upon  men  and  women.  The  physical 
needs  of  age  are  infinitely  less  important." 

"You  are  very  wonderful,  dear  mother," 
Rhoda  said.  "  I  am  not  surprised  that  your 
son  reverences  you  as  he  does.  But  you  were 
speaking  about  books,"  she  went  on,  as  if  will 
ing  to  make  a  diversion.  "What  are  your 
favorites?" 

"  I  have  few  favorites,  my  dear,  but  those  are 
as  true  and  tried  as  any  friends  could  be.  They 
are  all  old-fashioned.  Young's '  Night  Thoughts' 


DEAD   SELVES.  91 

is  one  of  them,  Homer's  '  Iliad'  is  another,  and, 
for  novels,  my  favorite  is  '  Jane  Eyre. '  ' 

"  '  Jane  Eyre'  ?  I  must  read  it,"  said  Rhoda, 
interested. 

"My* child,  have  you  never  read  'Jane 
Eyre'  ?"  said  the  old  lady,  her  face  and  voice 
expressive  of  the  deepest  wonder  and  protest, 
not  untinged  with  commiseration. 

"  Never,"  said  Rhoda,  apologetically.  "  Of 
course  I  know  what  a  fine  novel  it  is  considered. 
I  will  get  it  at  once." 

"It  is  much  more  than  a  fine  novel.  It  is 
also  as  magnificent  a  code  of  morals  as  I  have 
ever  known.  There  are  people  who  have  pro 
nounced  '  Jane  Eyre'  an  evil  book.  Heaven 
pity  them,  I  say  !  I  have  never  in  fiction  or 
reality  seen  so  difficult  a  choice  of  right  and 
wrong  put  before  any  one  as  there  is  in  '  Jane 
Eyre,'  never  such  inducement  and  temptation 
to  choose  the  wrong  and  reject  the  right ;  but 
little  Jane,  unaided  except  by  the  voice  within 
her  soul,  made  the  true  choice  against  odds  so 
gigantic  as  cannot  often  come  in  the  way  of  a 
human  being.  There  are  few  Rochesters,  either 
in  reality  or  imagination,  and  few  such  siren-like 
utterances  as  those  by  which  he  tried  to  beguile 
Jane  from  the  way  she  saw  to  be  the  right  one." 


92  DEAD   SELVES. 

Rhoda  listened  with  deep  interest,  and  also 
with  a  tinge  of  amusement.  She  had  in  her 
mind,  from  different  sources,  an  idea  of  the  sort 
of  man  that  Rochester  was,  and  it  amazed  her 
to  see  in  this  little,  quaint,  correct  old  lady  his 
eloquent  admirer  and  eulogist. 

"I  must  read  the  book  at  once,"  she  said. 
"  I  feel  impatient  to  begin." 

"Perhaps  you  would  not  mind  my  reading 
some  of  my  favorite  scenes  aloud  to  you,"  sug 
gested  her  companion,  almost  as  if  she  were  ask 
ing  a  favor. 

"  I  should  be  perfectly  delighted ;  only  I  fear 
it  would  be  too  great  a  tax  upon  you." 

"Oh,  I  love  to  read  aloud.  It  never  tires 
me,  and  certainly  I  am  not  likely  to  break  down 
on  'Jane  Eyre'  !  Suppose  we  go  to  my  sitting- 
room  now,  where  I  am  most  at  my  ease,  and 
let  me  read  a  little  of  it  to-night." 

Rhoda  agreeing  willingly,  they  were  soon 
seated  by  a  shaded  lamp,  Mrs.  Eraser  upright  in 
a  high-backed  arm-chair,  her  spectacles  and  a 
well-worn  volume  in  her  hand.  Rhoda  noticed, 
for  the  first  time,  that  there  was  a  faint  pink 
glow  under  one  side  of  her  white  kerchief,  and 
had  the  curiosity  to  ask  her,  before  beginning, 
to  tell  her  what  it  was. 


DEAD   SELVES.  93 

"  It  is  a  damask  rose,  my  dear,"  the  old  lady 
said.  "I  have  always  loved  them,  for  their 
color  and  their  odor,  and  I  have  most  tender 
associations  for  them,  connected  with  my  hus 
band.  ,When  I  was  young,  I  used  to  wear  them 
in  my  hair.  I  am  too  old  to  deck  myself  with 
roses  now,  but  I  constantly  put  them  there,  out 
of  sight,  because  I  love  the  smell  and  I  love  to 
have  them  about  me.  There  is  a  sort  of  com 
panionship  in  it.  But  now  for  my  dear  book," 
she  said,  with  a  change  of  tone.  "  I  shall  give 
you  a  copy  of  '  Jane  Eyre,'  and  I  expect  it  to 
be  a  great  pleasure  to  you,  and  a  great  benefit  as 
well.  All  people  do  not  see  that  book  as  I  do, 
but  I  imagine  that  you  will.  I  once  gave  a 
serious  shock  to  a  very  good  man — a  minister 
— by  telling  him  that  if  I  had  to  start  my 
children  forth  in  the  journey  of  life  with  but 
two  books,  those  books  would  be  '  Jane  Eyre* 
and  the  Bible." 

With  this  emphatic  enunciation,  Mrs.  Eraser 
put  on  her  delicate  gold-rimmed  spectacles  and 
began  turning  the  pages  of  the  book. 

"  I  am  not  going  to  read  the  first  part,"  she 
said,  "  though  I  hate  to  skip  a  single  word.  It 
is  all  absorbingly  interesting,  even  the  part 
about  her  residence  with  her  cruel  aunt  and 


94  DEAD   SELVES. 

cousins,  and  her  life  at  a  charity  school.  You 
will  read  all  that  for  yourself.  I  shall  begin 
with  her  meeting  with  Mr.  Rochester.  She 
had  been  employed,  you  possibly  know,  as 
governess  for  his  ward.  Now  bear  in  mind 
that  Jane  was  a  highly  intelligent  and  sensitive 
creature,  who  had  never  in  her  life  had  any 
companionship  with  an  equal  in  mind  and  feel 
ing.  Judge,  then,  what  a  vital  pleasure  it  must 
have  been  to  her  to  encounter  a  man  so  origi 
nal  and  independent  in  his  intellect  and  so 
acute  in  his  feelings  as  Rochester,  with  all  his 
faults  and  eccentricities,  was." 

With  this  preamble,  she  adjusted  her  spec 
tacles,  cleared  her  throat,  and,  with  a  look  of 
the  keenest  interest  and  attention,  began  to 
read. 

For  a  while  Rhoda's  interest  in  the  reader 
almost  eclipsed  her  interest  in  the  story.  It 
was  as  delightful  to  see  Mrs.  Fraser  read  as  it 
was  to  see  her  play.  She  had  the  same  habit 
of  emphasizing  with  her  head,  now  to  the  right 
and  now  to  the  left,  and  when  any  sentiment 
called  for  special  accentuation  she  nodded  em 
phatically  on  the  important  words.  Her  per 
fect  delight  in  the  quick  rapport  which  sprang 
up  between  Jane  and  Mr.  Rochester,  through 


DEAD   SELVES.  95 

the  commonplaces  of  their  first  interview,  ani 
mated  her  face  with  a  radiance  of  which  she 
was  all  unconscious. 

But  very  soon  the  story  itself  caught  Rhoda's 
attentidn  and  enchained  her  interest,  and  as  her 
companion  read  on,  skipping  the  less  important 
scenes  to  hurry  to  her  favorite  ones,  Rhoda's  ab 
sorption  became  equal  to  her  own.  The  humor 
of  the  situations  was  twice  as  charming,  with 
that  sympathetic  rendering  of  every  word  and 
phrase,  and  occasionally,  at  some  well-relished 
speech,  the  old  lady  would  nod  her  head  and 
emphasize  her  words  in  a  way  that  would  seem 
to  make  the  story  live  before  one.  For  instance, 
when  Rochester  parleys  with  himself  as  to 
whether  he  shall  admit  to  his  bosom,  or  banish, 
the  thought  of  Jane,  and  then  spreads  his  arms 
and  says,  "Here,  come  in,  bonny  wanderer !" 
the  old  lady's  eyes  scintillated  with  apprecia 
tion  and  enjoyment.  And  when,  further  on, 
in  his  arguments  with  Jane  not  to  leave  him,  he 
says,  "  Now  for  the  hitch  in  Jane's  character  !" 
she  paused  and  looked  at  Rhoda,  that  she  might 
give  her  a  moment  to  dwell  upon  the  delight- 
fulness  of  this.  And  when,  near  the  end, 
Rochester  says,  "  Jane  suits  me  :  do  I  suit  her  ?" 
and  Jane  answers,  "To  the  finest  fibre  of  my 


96  DEAD   SELVES. 

nature, ' '  her  sweet  old  face  was  positively  aglow 
with  satisfaction  and  delight. 

It  was  a  wonderful  experience  for  Rhoda,  in 
more  ways  than  one.  It  admitted  her,  for  the 
first  time  in  her  life,  to  an  intimate  companion 
ship  with  a  being  who  could  give  her  both  the 
intellectual  stimulus  which  she  had  heretofore 
lacked  and  the  greater  boon  of  affection  and 
sympathy  for  want  of  which  her  life  had  been 
more  arid  still. 


X 


RHODA'S  visit  was  a  short  one.  Full  of 
new  impulses  and  inspirations  as  it  had 
been,  she  felt  no  wish  to  prolong  it,  but 
returned  to  town  on  the  day  she  had  ap 
pointed. 

Mrs.  Fraser,  though  she  would  gladly  have 
prolonged  what  had  been  so  great  a  pleasure  to 
herself,  did  not  urge  her  to  stay.  She  and 
Rhoda  understood  each  other.  She  knew  that 
the  young  mother,  so  recently  aroused  to  a  sense 
of  her  duty,  would  have  no  rest  until  she  had 
put  her  new  resolutions  into  effect,  and  her  own 
sense  of  motherhood  made  a  strong  appeal  for 
this  brilliant,  beautiful  young  creature  in  her 
first  timid  yearnings  for  the  nobler  life  and  the 
higher  ends  of  which  she  had  had  no  vision 
until  now. 

The  parting  between  the  two  women  was  full 

of  a  deep,  unspoken  emotion.     When  Rhoda, 

equipped  for  her  journey,  put  her  arms  about 

the  frail  little  figure  of  the  elder  woman  and 

7  97 


98  DEAD   SELVES. 

drew  her  close,  there  was  promise  as  well  as 
confidence  in  the  embrace,  and  her  companion 
felt  it. 

"Remember  this,  my  child,"  said  the  old 
lady:  "I  am  not  useless  and  superannuated 
yet.  If  you  should  ever  want  me,  I  am  not 
only  willing  but  fully  able  to  come  to  you  at 
any  time  and  for  any  service,  though  I  am 
anxious  to  keep  quiet  as  long  as  I  am  not 
wanted.  Remember  also  that  the  old  place  is 
always  here  and  I  am  in  it,  and  that  it  is  yours 
as  well  as  mine.  It  may  occur  to  you  some 
time  that  you  would  like  to  come  here  with 
your  child,  for  a  little  change,  where  the  eyes 
of  strangers  would  not  be  upon  you.  If  so, 
remember  that  your  child  is  my  grandchild, 
whether  the  tie  of  blood  exists  or  not." 

With  these  sweet  words  in  her  ears,  and  their 
loving  echo  in  her  heart,  Rhoda  drove  away, 
leaving  the  old  lady  standing  on  the  steps  in 
the  sunshine,  waving  her  hand  with  a  smile  of 
encouragement  that  was  strength  for  her  heart 
to  lean  upon.  The  last  detail  that  she  noticed 
was  the  pink  spot  of  color  under  the  trans 
parent  muslin  kerchief. 

Rhoda's  heart  had  opened  like  a  bud  in  sun 
shine,  under  the  precious  influences  of  this  visit, 


DEAD   SELVES.  99 

but  as  she  took  her  seat  with  her  maid  in  the 
cars,  the  very  sight  of  the  people  about  her 
seemed  to  have  its  influence  to  congeal  these 
tender  streams  of  feeling  at  their  source. 

At  a  Certain  junction  on  the  road  the  train 
stopped  to  wait  for  a  connection.  Rhoda,  feel 
ing  an  inexplicable  sense  of  withdrawal  from 
the  people  about  her, — prosperous  travellers, 
hurrying  over  the  earth  from  crowded  city  to 
crowded  city, — turned  away  from  this  sight  and 
looked  out  of  the  window.  As  she  did  so,  the 
expected  train  came  in,  and  the  palpitating, 
gasping  engine  had  come  to  a  halt  just  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  platform  from  where  her 
car  had  stopped.  A  woman,  carrying  a  child, 
had  been  waiting  for  the  coming  of  this  train, 
and  Rhoda  saw  her  now  hurrying  eagerly  up 
the  long  platform  to  the  engine.  The  weight 
of  her  burden,  together  with  her  rapid  move 
ment,  made  her  pant.  She  was  laughing,  too, 
and  talking  to  the  child  with  a  breathless 
animation.  Her  broad  face,  covered  with 
freckles,  was  hotly  flushed,  and  beads  of  per 
spiration  stood  in  half-circles  under  her  light 
blue  eyes.  A  more  absolute  specimen  of 
physical  discomfort,  as  she  hustled  along  with 
the  child,  Rhoda  thought  she  had  never  seen, 


too  DEAD   SELVES. 

and  yet  she  looked  completely  happy,  even  joy 
ous,  at  some  anticipation  ahead  of  her. 

"Yonder's  papa!  Papa  sees  us,"  Rhoda 
heard  her  saying  to  the  child,  with  giggles  of 
delight.  "  Kiss  hand  to  papa  !" 

Following  the  direction  of  the  woman's  eyes, 
Rhoda  now  saw  a  strapping  young  fellow,  in 
coarse  blue  overalls  smeared  with  smut  and 
grease,  who  had  just  sprung  down  from  the  en 
gine,  leaving  the  iron  monster  throbbing  and 
hissing  on  the  track.  The  woman  came  bustling 
up  to  him,  with  a  hasty  salutation  of  "  Hello, 
Tom  ! ' '  and  then  they  both  fixed  their  eyes  on  the 
small,  wabbling  figure  of  the  child,  which  she 
had  set  upon  its  feet  on  the  platform.  Mother 
and  baby  were  evidently  in  their  gala  attire. 
The  former  wore  a  pink  cotton  dress  bristling 
with  starched  ruffles,  and  a  hat  with  crude  pink 
roses  in  it  which  bobbed  about  at  the  top  of 
long  wire  stems.  The  baby  was  in  white, 
though  it  was  the  sort  of  white  that  rather  sug 
gested  wrapping-paper  than  the  soft  material 
suitable  for  a  child's  tender  body.  Its  little 
snub  nose  was  red  from  sunburn,  and  the 
stiffened  lace  of  its  cap-trimmings,  from  the 
border  of  which  the  perspiration  was  streaming, 
looked  almost  as  if  it  might  have  been  a  pre- 


DEAD    SELVES.  101 

meditated  instrument  of  torture.  And  yet  the 
child  also  looked  happy,  and  gurgled  and 
grinned  at  the  sight  of  its  father.  The  latter, 
it  was  evident,  felt  himself  unfit  for  any  near 
association  with  these  brilliant  beings.  He  fell 
on  his  smoked-stained  knees  before  the  baby, 
and,  as  it  bent  forward  to  obey  its  mother's 
behest  to  "kiss  papa,"  he  lurched  his  great, 
strong  body  backward,  holding  himself  off  as 
far  as  possible,  while  he  allowed  only  his  lips  to 
come  in  contact  with  the  child.  His  face  was 
smeared  with  smut,  his  great  hands  were  black 
and  greasy.  He  received  the  child's  kiss 
almost  humbly.  One  might  have  said  that  he 
felt  himself  scarcely  worthy  of  it.  "She 
grows,  don't  she?"  he  said  bashfully  to  the 
mother,  who  answered  laconically,  "She  do 
grow, ' '  which  seemed  to  be  all  they  found  to  say 
to  each  other.  In  another  instant  the  con 
ductor  called  out,  "  All  aboard,"  and  the  young 
engineer  sprang  to  his  feet  and  with  a  strong, 
light  leap  had  regained  his  position  on  the 
engine  and  laid  hold  upon  the  throttle  with  his 
left  hand.  The  next  instant  the  iron  beast 
began  to  push  forward,  and  as  it  glided  away 
Rhoda  could  see  its  master,  as  long  as  he 
remained  in  sight,  leaning  from  the  little 


io2  DEAD   SELVES. 

window  and  waving  his  grimy  right  hand  to  the 
baby,  while  with  his  other  hand  he  kept  a  calm 
control  of  the  great  machine. 

Her  own  train  whistled,  and  she  was  borne 
away,  but  the  remembrance  of  that  little  scene 
remained  with  her.  What  a  thing  affection 
was  !  How  it  glorified  the  commonest  lot  ! — 
and  how  bereaved  was  the  most  brilliant  lot 
without  it  ! 

Her  handsome  carriage,  when  it  met  her  at 
the  station,  seemed  to  her  a  sort  of  luxuriously 
constructed  trap  set  to  imprison  her,  and  her 
magnificent  house,  when  she  presently  entered 
it,  seemed  a  great  jail. 


XI 

RHODA  was  informed  on  her  arrival  that 
Mr.  Fraser  was  at  Brockett  and  would 
not  be  back  until,  time  to  dress  for  an  engage 
ment  which  would  occupy  him  for  the  evening. 

It  was  rather  a  relief  to  her.  She  wanted 
some  time  to  herself,  to  look  the  present  hour 
in  the  face.  She  realized  profoundly  that  her 
life  was  changed,  but  it  was  her  wish  that  no 
such  change  should  be  apparent  to  Fraser. 

There  was  a  deep  root  to  that  change,  which 
even  her  dear  new  mother  did  not  know  of,  and 
of  which  she  could  not  think,  alone  in  her  own 
soul,  without  feeling  her  cheeks  grow  hot.  She 
would  not  think  of  it.  She  would  put  her  foot 
upon  the  thought,  as  often  as  it  arose,  and  per 
haps,  thus  fought  with  and  discouraged,  it  might 
die  and  cease  to  trouble  her. 

She  spent  the  afternoon  alone,  thinking  and 
planning  as  to  her  future  and  trying  to  brace 
herself  to  bear  bravely  the  poignant  mortifica 
tions  and  wounds  which  she  knew  that  it  in 
volved.  The  worst  thing  which  she  had  to 

103 


104  DEAD   SELVES. 

fight  was  the  physical  and  mental  repulsion  which 
she  felt  for  the  object  toward  whom  her  awakened 
soul  and  conscience  were  impelling  her.  She 
knew  that  she  had  the  power  to  overcome  this, 
and  foresaw  that  she  should  overcome  it,  but  all 
the  same  she  shrank,  in  body  and  in  spirit. 

She  had  ordered  dinner  to  be  served  to  her 
in  her  own  rooms,  and  she  was  sitting  there, 
when  there  came  a  tap  at  the  door. 

''Come  in,"  she  said,  and  Fraser  entered, 
leaving  the  door  open  behind  him. 

He  was  dressed  for  dinner,  and  was  looking 
unusually  well  and  animated.  Rhoda's  heart 
beat  quicker,  for  all  her  calm  and  guarded  face. 

"How  are  you,  Rhoda?"  he  said.  "And 
how  did  you  leave  my  mother?" 

He  did  not  so  much  as  offer  his  hand,  but 
this  she  had  not  expected.  There  was  a  perfect 
understanding  between  them,  and  the  tacit  laws 
which  they  had  made  for  their  intercourse 
seemed  to  be  the  same  in  the  minds  of  each. 

"  She  is  very  well,  and  sent  you  a  great  deal 
of  love,"  said  Rhoda,  in  a  perfectly  conven 
tional  manner  and  tone. 

"And  how  did  you  like  the  old  place?  I 
hope  you  found  it  sympathetic.  My  mother 
would  be  sure  to  find  it  out  if  you  did  not." 


DEAD   SELVES.  105 

"  She  could  not  have  failed  to  see  that  I  was 
pleased  with  it,"  said  Rhoda,  "and  I  think  it 
gave  her  pleasure." 

She  had  meant  to  take  this  opportunity,  when 
there  w.as  press  of  time,  to  tell  him  what  she  had 
decided  to  do  about  the  child.  The  tersely 
worded  sentences  were  already  prepared,  but 
somehow  they  refused  to  be  uttered.  He  looked 
so  buoyant,  so  of  the  prosperous  and  happy 
world,  which  resents  the  intrusion  of  such  hor 
rible  ideas  as  the  one  which  she  had  to  suggest, 
that  she  could  not  bring  herself  to  speak  of  it. 
So  she  let  the  chance  go  by,  and  in  another 
moment  he  had  bidden  her  a  polite  good-even 
ing  and  was  gone. 

Left  alone,  she  turned  over  once  more  in  her 
mind  the  thought  of  writing  him  what  she  had 
to  say.  But  she  shrank  from  that  as  cowardly. 
She  did  not  want  him  to  think  that  she  could 
not  look  him  in  the  face  while  she  spoke  of  a 
thing  which  would  necessarily  bring  up  the 
thought  of  her  former  marriage,  and  Rhoda  had 
now  a  different  light  upon  that  subject  from  the 
one  she  had  had  of  old, — a  light,  alas,  which 
she  felt  was  more  nearly  the  one  by  which  he 
had  seen  it  ! 

Poor  Rhoda !    It  seemed  to  her  that  her  soul's 


io6  DEAD   SELVES. 

growth  and  her  mind's  development — two  things 
which  she  could  not  be  unconscious  of — had 
their  strongest  effect  in  showing  her  that  mar 
riage  in  colors  so  hideous  that  she  turned  from 
the  memory  of  it  now  with  a  deeper  and  more 
intolerable  aversion  than  the  fact  itself  had 
given  rise  to.  After  the  first  step,  the  de 
velopment  of  her  spirit  had  been  rapid,  and 
every  day  and  hour  she  saw  more  clearly  what 
the  world — the  polite  and  politic  world  which 
smiled  upon  her  and  flattered  her — must  have 
said  of  such  a  marriage  as  the  one  she  had 
made. 

And  if  the  world  had  sneered  and  scorned, 
what  must  have  been  the  thoughts  of  the  man 
who  had  put  himself  in  the  position  of  her 
husband  before  that  world  ?  How  vitally  he 
must  have  wanted  money  !  How  infinitely  im 
portant  must  his  career  have  been  to  him,  to 
force  him  to  endure  even  the  appearance  of 
such  a  union  ! 

But  it  was  all  past  and  over  now.  People 
soon  forget,  and  she  felt  a  consciousness  that  a 
thing  so  completely  out  of  sight  as  her  first  mar 
riage  was  fast  going  out  of  mind  also.  In  this 
reflection  lay  her  strongest  temptation.  The 
world  might  forget  and  overlook  her  first  mar- 


DEAD   SELVES.  107 

riage.  More  than  this,  Fraser  himself  might 
gradually  come  to  do  so,  if  she  did  not,  by  her 
own  act,  recall  an  evidence  of  it  which  must 
impress  it  anew  upon  the  consciousness  of  all. 

Fof  a  moment  the  thought  of  the  portentous 
result  of  the  step  she  had  determined  upon 
shook  her  purpose,  but  for  a  moment  only. 
She  was  feeling  that  strange  and  imperious  de 
mand,  the  necessity  of  virtue.  It  had  been  late 
in  asserting  its  claim  upon  her  life,  but  it  was 
therefore  the  more  compelling.  Yes,  she  must 
do  this  thing.  The  voice  of  her  soul  had 
uttered  a  fiat  which  she  could  not  disobey.  But 
oh,  if  the  consequences  of  it  could  only  fall 
upon  herself  alone  !  She  was  willing  to  bear 
them.  She  was  almost  eager  for  the  sweet  sense 
of  atonement  which  she  trusted  they  would 
bring,  but  she  shrank  from  recalling  such  a  con 
sciousness  to  the  mind  of  the  man  whom  she 
had  married.  It  seemed  somehow  an  outrage 
to  him.  Well,  this  too  might  be  a  part  of  her 
atonement,  and  certainly  it  was  bitter  enough  ! 

What  a  long  and  lonely  evening  she  spent, 
while  Fraser  was  off  at  his  dinner,  enjoying 
the  agreeable  talk  and  the  well-cooked  dishes  ! 
How  jaded  and  wearied  out  she  felt  when  he 
came  in  animated  and  refreshed  ! 


io8  DEAD   SELVES. 

She  heard  him  come,  and,  summoning  all  her 
courage,  went  down  to  the  library  to  speak  to 
him. 

He  had  taken  up  the  evening  paper,  but  he 
laid  it  by  and  rose  to  receive  her,  looking  a  little 
surprised,  but  also — or  so  she  imagined — a  little 
as  if  he  were  pleased  to  see  her.  She  had  often 
seen  such  a  look  on  his  face  lately,  and  it  had 
come  to  be  a  great  deal  to  her.  Was  she  about 
to  banish  it  forever  ?  It  had  taken  years  to  make 
it  come  spontaneously  at  the  sight  of  her,  but 
there  it  was  now,  a  look  she  had  grown  used  to 
seeing  on  that  face.  She  attributed  it  wholly  to 
her  interest  and  cooperation  in  his  work,  but  it 
was  infinitely  much  to  her,  from  whatever  cause 
it  had  come. 

"Is  that  you,  Rhoda?"  he  said,  and  surely 
she  was  not  wrong  in  fancying  a  ring  of  wel 
come  in  his  voice.  "  I'm  glad  you  came  down. 
You'll  be  pleased  to  know  how  well  things  are 
going  at  the  laboratory.  I've  been  quite  lost 
without  your  interest  and  sympathy  in  it  all." 

These  words  were  sweet  to  Rhoda, — toosweet, 
alas !  Again  she  felt  her  purpose  shaken  and 
had  to  muster  her  forces  and  make  her  resolu 
tion  anew.  She  felt  that  she  must  act  quickly. 
This  ordeal  must  end. 


DEAD   SELVES.  109 

"I  am  so  glad,"  she  said.  "  No  one  could 
care  about  it  as  I  do,  whether  it  makes  you  the 
fame  and  fortune  that  I  expect  or  not.  But 
there  is  something  else  that  I  must  speak  to  you 
of  to*night.  I  have  been  waiting  up  on  pur 
pose." 

He  saw  that  she  was  very  pale,  and  a  look  of 
kind  sympathy  came  into  his  face. 

"Does  my  cigar  distress  you?  You  look 
pale,"  he  said ;  and  when  she  nodded,  he  tossed 
it  away. 

"I  will  draw  back  the  curtain  :  the  room  is 
warm"  he  said. 

Never  before  had  she  objected  to  his  cigar  or 
to  any  act  or  habit  of  his,  but  now  she  felt  half 
stifled  and  was  grateful  for  the  fresh  air. 

As  he  turned  from  the  window  and  came  to 
ward  her,  the  whiteness  of  her  face  struck  him 
anew.  There  was  a  new  look  of  timidity  in 
her,  which  made  a  strong  appeal  to  him.  Her 
brief  absence  had  caused  him  a  half-unconscious 
sense  of  lack  and  loss,  and  he  felt  it  to  be  very 
pleasant  to  have  her  back. 

"You  look  tired  and  ill,"  he  said,  again, 
pushing  a  deep  chair  toward  her.  "Sit  down, 
dear." 

It  was  the  first  caressing  word  that  he  had 


no  DEAD   SELVES. 

ever  said  to  her,  and  its  sweetness  pierced  her 
heart.  It  was  well  the  chair  was  near  to  receive 
her,  for  her  knees  felt  weak,  from  that  wave  of 
feeling  which  swept  over  her. 

She  sank  back  without  speaking,  and  Fraser, 
as  if  recollecting  himself,  crossed  the  room  on 
some  pretext  and  did  not  immediately  return. 
In  this  way  she  had  a  moment  to  recover  her 
self.  She  knew  that  he  had  not  meant  to  say 
that  word  to  her,  and  its  very  spontaneousness 
made  it  the  precious  thing  it  was.  The  swift 
vision  of  a  bewildering  possibility  flashed  across 
her  brain,  and  with  it  came  the  dread  alterna 
tive  of  doing  what  she  had  come  here  deter 
mined  to  do.  One  was  the  path  of  delight  and 
comfort,  the  other  was  the  path  of  denial  and 
pain,  but  she  could  not  hesitate  for  long.  The 
worst  part  of  her  sense  of  the  contempt  in 
which  she  was  tacitly  held  by  this  man  and  by 
the  world  was  the  feeling  that  it  was  deserved. 
She  had  advanced  far  enough  along  the  upward 
path  of  spirituality  to  make  it  more  important 
to  her  to  deserve  love  than  to  have  it.  What 
she  suffered  from  most  keenly  was  the  con 
sciousness  of  never  having  had  real  respect  from 
those  who  treated  her  with  deference,  particu 
larly  from  Fraser.  That  was  infinitely  more 


DEAD   SELVES.  in 

important  to  her  than  the  other  thing,  for  which 
her  heart  had  cried  out  for  one  instant, — a  cry 
which  had  now  been  stifled. 

"Mr.  Fraser,"  she  said,  drawing  herself  up 
right,  jmd  speaking  in  a  strong  and  steady  voice. 

It  seemed  as  if  Fraser  too  needed  to  pull  him 
self  together  at  this  somewhat  imperious  sum 
mons.  It  roused  him,  apparently,  from  some 
influence  of  abstraction  and  preoccupation.  He 
turned  suddenly  and  crossed  the  room,  seating 
himself  before  her. 

Her  whole  manner  had  changed.  She  was 
now  cold  and  absolutely  self-possessed.  Could 
it  be,  he  wondered,  that  she  resented  the  word 
he  had  used? 

"I  must  speak  to  you  just  once,"  she  said, 
"on  a  subject  which  it  is  necessary  that  you 
should  know  about.  I  have  decided  to  bring 
my  child  home,  and  to  keep  it  with  me  for  the 
future." 

The  man's  face  whitened.  He  started  per 
ceptibly,  and  drew  backward  from  her.  It  was 
a  slight  movement,  but  it  expressed  a  sense  of 
revulsion  which  sent  a  pang  of  agony  through 
all  her  nerves  and  seemed  to  make  them  harden 
into  steel.  He  got  up  from  his  place  and  walked 
away  from  her.  She  felt  that  he  was  experi- 


ii2  DEAD   SELVES. 

encing  a  sense  of  shame  for  her  which  would 
not  suffer  him  to  look  her  in  the  face.  This 
conviction  stung  her  pride.  She  stood  up  also, 
and  said,  in  a  voice  cold  to  curtness : 

"  I  suppose  you  do  not  object.  Of  course  I 
shall  take  pains  that  you  shall  see  and  hear 
nothing.  I  shall  have  some  third-story  rooms 
made  ready,  and  these,  with  the  long  verandas 
there,  will  be  all  the  space  required.  The  utmost 
care  will  be  taken  to  spare  you  all  annoyance, 
and  this  subject  need  not  be  referred  to  again." 

She  was  about  to  leave  the  room,  but  he 
stopped  her. 

"  Wait,"  he  said,  a  certain  difficulty  of  utter 
ance  apparent  in  his  voice.  "  I  should  like  to 
speak  to  you.  You  well  know  that  I  should 
never  think  of  exercising  any  restriction  upon 
you,  in  any  way.  You  are  free  to  do,  in  all 
matters,  as  you  choose ;  but  why  do  you  do  this 
thing?" 

She  looked  at  him  coolly.  There  was  the 
expression  of  a  concealed  smile  on  her  face. 
Evidently  she  felt  it  to  be  impossible  for  him  to 
attribute  her  real  motive  to  such  a  woman  as  he 
conceived  her  to  be. 

"Because  I  wish  to  do  it,"  she  said,  with  an 
inflection  of  pride  in  her  voice. 


DEAD   SELVES.  113 

"That  is  enough  for  me,  of  course;  but  I 
venture  to  suggest  that  you  are  making  a  mis 
take.  Much  better  care  can  be  given  to  such 
cases  in  institutions  which  exist  for  the  purpose 
and  iftake  a  special  study  and  science  of  it." 

Rhoda  could  see  that  he  was  conquering  an 
intense  repugnance,  even  in  speaking  at  all. 

"  I  shall  see  that  the  best  possible  care  is 
secured  in  this  house,"  she  said.  "  Nurses  and 
medical  attention  will  be  provided.  I  have 
satisfied  myself  that  there  is  no  hope  of  im 
provement  in  this  case,  and  I  have  come  to  feel 
— rather  late,  perhaps — that  I  must  have  my 
child  under  the  roof  with  me  and  attend  per 
sonally  to  its  care." 

Fraser  was  white  to  the  lips,  as  he  stood 
facing  her,  and  spoke  still  with  that  manner  of 
difficult  compulsion. 

"Have  you  visited  it  recently?"  he  asked. 
"  Do  you  know  its  condition  ?" 

"I  know  its  condition,  though  I  have  not 
visited  it, — a  confession  which  I  ought  to  be 
ashamed  to  make.  Thank  God,  I  am  ashamed  ! 
It  is  for  that  reason  that  I  am  trying  to  repair 
the  past." 

"I  would  advise  you  to  guard  against  rash 
ness  and  sentimental  feeling.  Are  you  not 
8 


H4  DEAD   SELVES. 

letting  a  mere  emotion  control  your  conduct 
now  ?' ' 

She  looked  at  him  from  under  half-lowered 
lids.  There  was  some  resentment  mingled  with 
the  coldness  of  her  glance. 

"I  am  not,  as  a  rule,  emotional,  I  think," 
she  said,  quietly,  "  and  there  could  not  be  a  more 
proper  object  for  feeling  than  my  own  child.' ' 

As  she  forced  these  words,  she  felt  herself 
wince  inwardly,  even  as  she  saw  him  wince  out 
wardly  and  visibly.  It  was  a  look  of  positive 
horror  which  her  last  words  had  called  up  on 
his  face. 

"You  must  do  as  you  like,"  he  said,  coldly, 
"but  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  understand  why 
you  should  wish  to  do  a  thing  so  painful  and  so 
useless. ' ' 

'•'I  do  not  ask  you  to  understand.  I  did  not 
expect  that  you  would.  I  only  asked  you  to 
agree.  Since  you  have  done  so,  we  need  say 
no  more." 

She  made  a  movement  to  leave  him,  but  a 
sudden  idea  came  to  him,  and  he  stopped  her, 
saying,  hastily  : 

"  I  suppose  it  is  my  mother  who  has  put  this 
idea  into  your  head.  If  so " 

"  You  are  wrong,"  she  answered.     "  Does  it 


DEAD   SELVES.  115 

seem  to  you  impossible  that  a  prompting  of 
duty  could  come  to  me  from  my  own  heart  ?  I 
suppose  it  does  seem  so,  and  I  cannot  wonder ; 
but  this  at  least  I  can  say :  your  mother  had 
nothirtg  to  do  with  it.  She  did  not  even  know 
of  the  existence  of  that  poor  being  for  whose 
wretched  life  I  am  responsible.  It  has  been 
forgotten  by  every  one." 

"  Yes,  yes,  it  is  forgotten  !"  he  said,  eagerly. 
"  Why  should  you  bring  it  back  from  the  dead  ? 
You  can  do  it  no  good,  and  will  do  yourself 
only  harm." 

Rhoda  heard  him  with  a  sense  of  pain  that 
was  quite  new  to  her.  It  was  the  first  time  that 
she  had  ever  for  one  instant  felt  him  below  her, 
and  she  had  a  feeling  for  him  that  cried  out  in 
protest  against  that. 

"Your  mother  did  not  suggest  this  thing  to 
me,"  she  said.  "  It  came  from  my  own  heart, 
so  long  debased  and  dead.  But  your  mother 
knows  of  it  and  approves  it.  She  has  given 
me  her  sympathy  and  support  in  doing  it.  She 
was  very  kind  to  me,  and  treated  me  with  a  love 
and  trust  that  I  have  never  known  before.  If  I 
had  had  a  mother,  and  she  had  been  like  this 
one,  I  could  have  been  a  better  woman.  I  might 
even  have  been  a  good  and  noble  one,  helping 


n6  DEAD   SELVES. 

other  women  by  my  life  and  my  example,  as  she 
is  doing,  instead  of  lowering  and  dragging  down 
every  sacred  ideal  of  woman,  as  I  have  done." 

A  dark  flush  spread  over  her  face,  and  her 
voice  trembled.  Her  figure,  in  spite  of  its 
strong  young  erectness,  trembled  also,  and  with 
an  impetuous  motion  she  passed  him  and  left 
the  room. 

When  she  was  gone,  he  stood  some  seconds 
in  his  place  and  looked  after  her  with  wide, 
disturbed,  uncomprehending  eyes.  He  saw  her 
turn,  at  the  head  of  the  stairs,  toward  her  own 
apartments  and  disappear  from  sight. 

Throwing  himself  into  a  chair,  he  buried  his 
face  in  his  hands  and  groaned. 


XII 

SEVERAL  months  had  passed,  and  Rhoda's 
plan,  put  into  prompt  execution,  had  now 
entered  into  the  scheme  of  her  daily  life  and 
become  an  important  element  in  her  actions  and 
her  consciousness.  Fully  prepared  though  she 
had  been,  the  sight  of  the  poor,  afflicted,  mind 
less  being,  whose  existence  in  this  sad  world  she 
felt  to  be  her  bitter  responsibility,  had  been  a 
terrific  blow  to  her,  and  as  time  went  on,  it  did 
not  seem  to  soften.  The  years  which  had  passed 
since  the  birth  of  this  child  had  been  significant 
ones  to  Rhoda  and  had  wrought  in  her  a  won 
derful  development.  Her  interest  in  Eraser's 
work  and  her  desire  to  enter  into  it  with  intel 
ligence  had  stimulated  her  mind  to  a  hitherto 
undreamed-of  activity,  and  this  had  led  the  way 
to  the  development  of  her  heart  and  her  power 
of  feeling.  The  magic  touchstone  which  had 
kindled  the  new  fire  now  burning  in  her  heart 
was  a  consciousness  which  Rhoda  scarcely  owned 
to  herself,  and  one  which  she  would  have  suf- 

117 


u8  DEAD   SELVES. 

fered  death  rather  than  have  had  known  to  any 
other  creature. 

From  the  day  of  the  child's  removal  to  her 
house,  although  it  was  accomplished  in  his  ab 
sence  and  with  all  possible  privacy,  there  had 
come  a  change  in  Fraser,  which  Rhoda  felt 
keenly.  After  that  one  talk,  the  subject  had 
not  been  mentioned,  but  there  had  come  an  in 
creased  sense  of  distance  between  them.  Now 
that  it  was  over,  Rhoda  realized  that  there  had 
existed  a  certain  bond,  which  might  almost  have 
been  likened  to  affection ;  but  this  was  now  as 
if  it  had  never  been.  Indeed,  so  altered  was  he 
toward  her  that  she  had  been  forced  into  a 
totally  changed  attitude  concerning  his  work. 
He  did  not  seem  to  wish  to  talk  of  it  to  her,  or 
to  take  her  into  it,  as  he  had  formerly  done, 
and,  perceiving  this  disinclination  on  his  part, 
she  withdrew  into  herself,  and  never  now  men 
tioned  the  subject  to  him  unless  he  introduced 
it.  Once  he  had  objected,  on  account  of  the 
heat,  to  her  going  to  Brockett,  but  when  the 
cooler  weather  came  he  did  not  propose  it,  and 
she,  thinking  that  she  understood,  silently  ac 
quiesced  in  all. 

Rhoda,  constraining  herself  hourly  to  the 
difficult  task,  spent  a  good  deal  of  time  with 


DEAD   SELVES.  119 

the  child.  It  slept  much,  but  its  waking  hours 
were  almost  always  accompanied  by  a  little 
fretful  wailing,  which  indicated  disturbance 
and  unrest.  The  nurses  explained  to  her  that 
this  could  generally  be  stilled  by  music  or  by 
any  continued  and  decided  sound.  They  kept 
music-boxes,  to  play  to  it,  but  these  were  mo 
notonous  and  discordant,  and  Rhoda  had  a 
small  piano  taken  to  the  room. 

At  that  piano  she  would  play  for  hours,  gen 
erally  with  the  effect  of  quieting  the  child,  who 
would  lie  in  its  wheel -bed  quite  near  to  her. 

And  what  music  Rhoda  played  to  those  dull 
ears  !  What  passionate  strains  of  longing  and 
regret  and  renunciation  rose  in  that  quiet  room, 
so  far  away  from  the  decorum  and  social  ob 
servances  of  the  other  part  of  the  house,  where 
entertainments  were  given  and  visitors  received  ! 

For  Rhoda  kept  up  punctiliously  the  duties 
of  her  social  position.  Fraser  was  an  important 
man,  whom  other  men  sought  out,  and  it  was 
both  agreeable  and  useful  to  him  to  make  his 
house  attractive.  To  every  detail  that  could 
further  this  end,  Rhoda  gave  her  attention,  with 
an  assiduity  that  could  not  fail  to  bring  success. 
A  better  organized  house  and  more  delightful 
dinners  than  hers  were  not  known  in  the  city. 


izo  DEAD   SELVES. 

But  that  was  one  life,  and  the  life  which  she 
now  led  with  the  child  was  another.  During 
the  hours  she  spent  with  it  she  preferred  to  have 
no  one  else  near,  and  generally  sent  the  nurse 
away,  for  rest  or  exercise,  with  a  maid  within 
sound  of  the  bell. 

All  this  time  her  outside  life  was  unchanged. 
She  frequently  drove  in  the  Park  with  Fraser, 
where  her  beauty  caused  much  admiration. 
They  talked  together,  of  course,  as  they  drove 
or  dined,  but  it  was  a  desultory  and  impersonal 
sort  of  talk,  and  they  did  not  often  meet  each 
other's  eyes,  except  for  the  merest  second.  As 
Rhoda  now  looked  back  at  those  days  at  the 
laboratory,  where  there  had  been,  at  least  on 
one  point,  sympathy  and  familiarity  between 
them,  she  felt  them  to  be  a  whole  desert's  space 
away  from  her  present  life,  and  she  understood 
the  reason  of  it. 

It  was  that  poor  creature,  fretting  and  sleeping 
its  useless  life  away  up  in  the  third  story,  which 
had  made  this  difference  between  them.  But  for 
her  act,  in  taking  it  into  her  life  and  conscious 
ness  again,  the  distance  that  divided  them  would 
have  been  lessened  daily.  When  she  thought 
of  this,  however,  she  shook  her  head.  She 
would  not  have  had  it  so  ! 


DEAD   SELVES.  121 

The  rooms  in  which  the  child  was  kept  were 
far  away  from  her  own  and  from  Eraser's  apart 
ments.  They  were  situated  far  back  in  the  third 
story,  and  had  a  long  veranda  running  beside 
them,  wftere  the  wheel-bed  was  often  pushed  up 
and  down,  for  the  sake  of  the  air  and  motion, 
of  which  the  half-conscious  invalid  took  small 
account.  Just  beneath  these  rooms  there  was  a 
sort  of  workshop,  which  Eraser  had  once  used 
for  a  short  time  for  some  work  which  it  was 
necessary  that  he  should  do  in  town.  The  room 
not  being  needed,  it  was  left  as  he  had  last  used 
it,  and  he  now  and  then  had  occasion  to  go  to 
it.  There  was  a  passage  leading  from  his  own 
apartments  to  this  room,  and  there  was  a  stair 
case  on  the  piazza,  outside  of  it,  which  led  to 
another  overhead. 

One  evening  Eraser  went  to  this  room,  to 
look  for  some  object  that  he  wanted,  and  just 
as  he  was  about  to  strike  a  light  he  was  arrested 
by  the  notes  of  a  piano  up  above.  He  stood 
still,  waited,  and  listened.  He  loved  music, 
and  this  was  very  beautiful  music  which  came  to 
him  now.  There  was  a  quality  in  it  which  ap 
pealed  to  him  peculiarly.  With  every  moment 
the  sweetness  of  it  seemed  to  deepen.  The 
keys  were  struck  by  a  hand  which  informed  them 


122  DEAD  SELVES. 

marvellously  with  the  feelings  in  the  player's 
heart,  and  never  had  he  listened  to  any  music 
which  seemed  to  him  so  sad. 

For  a  long  time  he  listened,  a  great  agitation 
possessing  him.  Could  it  be  Rhoda  who  played 
in  that  wonderful  way,  when  he  had  never  sus 
pected  her  of  any  musical  gift  at  all  ?  It  must 
be  Rhoda.  It  could  be  no  one  else ;  but  he 
must  make  sure. 

Creeping  silently  out  on  the  porch,  he  mounted 
the  stairs  with  great  caution  and  looked  through 
the  open  window  into  the  room. 

Yes.  There  at  the  piano  sat  Rhoda,  in  a 
scant  gown  that  draped  her  body  close,  her  hair, 
in  a  long  plait,  hanging  down  her  back, — her 
beautiful  back,  so  straight  and  firm  and  finely 
modelled !  He  had  never  seen  her  with  this 
girlish-looking  coiffure  before,  and  it  made  a 
strange  appeal  to  him.  The  front  of  her  sweet 
rich  hair  was  drawn  simply  back  from  her  fore 
head,  outlining  a  face  that,  as  he  now  scrutinized 
it  deliberately,  seemed  to  him  far  the  most  lovely 
he  had  ever  seen,  and  as  sad  as  the  music  that 
she  played.  As  he  stood  there,  looking  at  her, 
the  admiration  which  the  sight  of  her  compelled 
was  mingled  with  a  resentment  and  a  sense  of 
injury  which  he  did  not  understand. 


DEAD  SELVES.  123 

Rhoda,  unconscious,  played  on.  Her  appear 
ance,  so  unlike  the  formally  dressed  woman  of 
the  world  whom  he  was  accustomed  to  see ;  her 
music,  a^  gift  so  unsuspected  in  her ;  her  expres 
sion,  so  unguardedly  sad  and  pathetic,  all  seemed 
to  put  him  at  a  great  and  impassable  distance 
from  her,  while  they  all  seemed  to  woo  and 
draw  him,  as  no  influence  had  ever  had  power  to 
do  before.  Her  pure  profile  was  toward  him, 
its  chin  lifted  and  eyes  upturned  to  a  point  on 
the  wall  before  her,  where  a  picture  hung.  He 
could  but  dimly  make  the  picture  out,  but  he 
saw  that  it  was  the  figure  of  a  woman  stretched 
upon  a  cross,  while  a  man  was  stooping  or  kneel 
ing  below. 

All  the  time  that  he  looked  the  music  con 
tinued.  She  was  playing  the  second  Nocturne 
of  Chopin,  a  thing  that  he  loved,  but  he  had 
never  heard  it  played  like  this  before.  As  it 
went  on  to  its  exquisite  ending,  he  seemed  to 
be  listening  with  more  than  his  mere  outward 
ears,  and  to  hear  more  than  merely  these  had 
ever  heard  before. 

As  the  last  repeated  chords  came  gently  forth 
from,  under  those  light  caressing  fingers,  he  could 
see  a  little  quiver  at  the  corners  of  the  sweet 
mouth.  She  crossed  her  arms  upon  the  music- 


124  DEAD    SELVES. 

rack  in  front  of  her,  and  bent  her  head  upon 
them.  He  knew  that  she  was  crying. 

A  sudden  strong  impulse  seized  him.  He  had 
almost  moved  forward,  when  a  sound  arrested 
him, — a  harsh  discordance  which  interrupted 
hideously  the  silence  which  had  followed  that 
melody.  It  made  him  wince  and  shrink,  as 
with  physical  pain. 

This  sound,  as  he  now  perceived,  came  from 
the  low  wheel-bed  on  the  other  side  of  Rhoda. 
On  this  bed  he  could  see  the  outline  of  a  shape 
less  bulk,  which  filled  him  with  an  indescribable 
repulsion.  He  stood  profoundly  still,  looking  at 
and  listening  to  what  sight  and  hearing  loathed. 

Rhoda,  startled  into  consciousness  also,  put 
out  one  hand,  and,  grasping  the  iron  handle  of 
the  bed,  pushed  it  to  and  fro,  while  her  voice, 
still  thick  with  tears,  began  to  croon  a  gentle 
song.  With  her  other  hand  she  tried  to  dash 
away  the  tears,  as  they  welled  up  from  her  heart. 

It  was  too  much  for  Fraser.  To  see  her  there, 
weeping  and  wretched  in  that  companionship, 
was  more  than  he  could  bear.  A  furious  anger 
and  resentment  got  possession  of  him.  He 
turned  suddenly,  and  fled  back  along  the  way 
he  had  come.  The  emotions  that  rose  in  his 
breast  bewildered  him  almost  to  frenzy. 


DEAD   SELVES.  125 

He  did  not  stop  until  he  had  gained  his  own 
apartments,  where  he  locked  the  door  and  re 
mained  long  alone  in  the  darkness. 

At  ten  o'clock  of  that  same  evening  he  came 
out  of  iiis  room,  ready  for  a  ball  to  which  he 
and  Rhoda  had  accepted  invitations. 

When  he  reached  the  lower  floor  she  was 
already  waiting  for  him,  magnificently  dressed 
and  wearing  superb  jewels.  Her  hair  was  ar 
ranged  in  a  wreath  of  close  plaits  round  and 
round  her  head,  and  her  toilet,  to  the  last  detail, 
was  finished  and  perfect.  Her  maid  stood  by, 
holding  her  wrap  and  fan. 

Rhoda  looked  up  as  he  came  down  the  steps, 
and  gave  him  a  small  cool  smile.  This,  as  he 
knew,  was  to  answer  for  a  greeting,  for  the 
benefit  of  the  servants  who  stood  by.  The  dis 
tant  civility  of  it  gave  him  a  sense  of  anger. 

As  they  drove  through  the  streets  together, 
both  were  silent.  Fraser  was  still  possessed  by 
that  blind  resentment  of  he  knew  not  what. 
And  yet  what  reason  had  he  to  complain  ?  The 
woman  who  had  agreed  to  take  upon  her  the 
position  of  his  wife  in  the  eyes  of  the  world  had 
faithfully  performed  every  obligation  of  her  po 
sition.  Nothing  had  transpired  which  gave 
him  the  least  ground  for  resentment.  Why  then 


126  DEAD   SELVES. 

was  he  angry  ?  If  she  had  caused  him  annoy 
ance  by  the  revelation  of  a  deep  unhappiness 
which  he  had  not  suspected,  the  fault  was  his 
for  listening  and  prying.  If  she  vexed  him 
by  her  coldness  and  reserve,  was  not  this  the 
very  attitude  that  he  had  tacitly  prescribed  ? 
He  knew  that  his  anger  was  unreasonable,  his 
irritation  senseless,  but  he  felt  it  all  the  same, 
and  he  felt  it  the  more  because  he  believed  her 
to  be  quite  indifferent  to  it. 

Very  often  in  these  last  two  years  Fraser  had 
congratulated  himself  upon  the  wisdom  of  his 
marriage.  Not  only  was  his  scientific  career 
greatly  advanced  by  it,  but  so  also  was  his  social 
career.  Rhoda  was  the  most  beautiful  woman 
of  his  acquaintance.  Her  manner  and  breeding 
were  highly  distinguished,  and  he  was  very 
proud  of  her. 

Why  then  was  he  not  also  satisfied  with  her  ? 
Until  lately,  he  had  been  so,  and  she  had  done 
nothing  recently  at  variance  with  her  usual  be 
havior.  The  difference,  then,  must  be  in  him 
self.  But  what  was  its  root  ? 

He  asked  himself  the  question,  but  he  wilfully 
ignored  the  response.  The  spontaneous  current 
of  its  suggestion  was  stemmed  by  a  recollection 
which  on  every  recurrence  roused  in  him  anew 


DEAD   SELVES.  127 

that  frenzy  of  resentment.  He  heard  again  in 
imagination  that  petulant  unnatural  little  cry, 
striking  its  discord  on  the  music's  sweet  remi 
niscences  ;  he  saw  that  repulsive  shape  close  to 
Rhoda's^ide,  and  knew  that  she  had  part  and 
lot  in  it. 

This  thought  was  so  intolerable  that  the  ner 
vous  tension  of  it  shook  him  as  with  a  chill, — 
at  which  Rhoda  asked,  politely,  if  he  felt  cold, 
and  said  she  was  afraid  he  had  worn  too  light 
an  overcoat. 

The  trivialness  of  this  suggestion  goaded  him 
still  more ;  but  what  could  he  do  ?  He  was  a 
wise  and  able  man,  used  to  coping  with  diffi 
culties  and  overcoming  them ;  but  here  at  last 
was  one  before  which  he  stood  utterly  and  bit 
terly  hopeless. 


XIII 

THE  growth  of  a  certain  amount  of  sym 
pathy  and  communion  between  these  two 
beings  had  been  slow  and  gradual,  but  its  in 
terruption  was  sudden  and  swift.  They  met, 
talked,  dined,  drove,  and  went  into  society  to 
gether  as  before,  but  they  felt  the  division  which 
had  come  between  them  to  be  definite,  sharp, 
and  positive.  The  camaraderie  which  had  once 
existed  on  the  score  of  Eraser's  work  was  utterly 
gone  now,  and  neither  made  the  smallest  effort 
to  revive  it.  It  was  therefore  rather  a  relief  to 
Rhoda  when  Eraser  announced  that  he  was 
obliged  to  take  a  journey  which  would  keep  him 
away  from  home  for  several  weeks. 

At  one  time  it  would  have  seemed  natural  that 
Rhoda  should  go  with  him,  but  now  the  journey 
was  spoken  of  by  both  of  them  without  refer 
ence  to  any  such  possibility.  Rhoda,  however, 
put  in  quite  an  eager  request  that  she  might 
have  his  mother  to  spend  the  period  of  his  ab 
sence  with  her.  The  evident  interest  which 
she  took  in  this  prospect  irritated  Eraser  unac- 
128 


DEAD   SELVES.  129 

countably,  but  of  course  he  consented  to  her 
wish. 

So,  after  a  cold  and  casual  leave-taking,  he 
went,  and  his  mother  came. 

With*the  arrival  of  Mrs.  Fraser  began  a  new 
and  wonderful  experience  in  Rhoda's  life.  Con 
stantly  to  be  surrounded  by  the  tenderest  care 
and  kindness,  to  be  believed  in  and  encouraged 
in  every  faint  good  impulse  that  came  into  ex 
istence  in  her  heart,  to  be  respected  by  the  being 
whom  she  reverenced  most,  was  balm  to  the 
poor  spirit  so  long  a  stranger  to  love.  There 
was  infinite  comfort  also  in  the  assurance  which 
Rhoda  tacitly  received  that  the  older  woman 
was  possessed  of  some  intuition  which  would 
protect  her  in  every  delicate  reserve  and  sensi 
bility  of  her  heart.  She  had  no  fear  of  having 
her  sacred  secret  consciousnesses  spied  upon  by 
this  comprehending  friend.  For  the  first  time 
in  her  life,  Rhoda  was  experiencing  the  luxury 
of  sympathy,  and  sympathy  from  a  woman  was 
peculiarly  sweet  to  her.  If  this  sympathy  was 
tacit  and  unspoken  in  one  way,  there  was  an 
other  in  which  it  could  be  and  was  fully  ex 
pressed,  and  that  was  with  regard  to  the  child. 
She  insisted  upon  Rhoda's  taking  her  to  that 
sad  room,  and  the  experience,  painful  as  it  was 
9 


1 30  DEAD   SELVES. 

in  one  way,  was  infinitely  soothing  too.  It  was 
a  joy  undreamed  of  to  have  that  horror  shared, 
with  such  courage  and  gentleness,  by  this  strong, 
sweet  woman-friend. 

"  Have  you  ever  thought  of  this,  my  child," 
said  Mrs.  Fraser,  after  they  had  returned  from 
that  first  sad  visit,  "  that  that  little  creature  has 
never  known  and  can  never  know  either  sorrow 
or  sin?" 

"Ah,  yes,  dear  mother,  it  is  true,"  said 
Rhoda.  "  You  have  given  me  a  little  comfort 
by  that  thought." 

"And  yet,  to  us  who  are  formed  with  great 
capabilities  of  both  suffering  and  sinning,  these 
may  be  such  noble  instruments  of  good  that  I 
could  never  count  any  happy  who  lack  them. ' ' 

"  Sorrow,  yes,"  said  Rhoda,  "  I  begin  to  see 
that  now;  but  sin,  wrong-doing,  our  own  evil 
acts,  can  you  see  any  good,  any  compensation, 
any  hope,  in  these?  Oh,  mother  dear,  if  you 
could  show  me  that !  I  cannot  see  it.  We  do 
wrong,  and  there  come  eternal  consequences, 
and  consequences  that  affect  others  as  well  as 
ourselves.  We  break  our  hearts  with  longing 
to  undo,  but  it  is  not  to  be.  We  can  only 
regret  and  suffer." 

"  We  can  do  more  than  that.     We  can  do 


DEAD   SELVES.  131 

our  utmost  to  atone,  and  we  can  grow  stronger 
and  tenderer  to  others  ;  and  that,  after  all,  is 
what  the  world  most  needs." 

Rhoda  looked  at  her  with  a  wistful  earnestness 
in  which,  there  was  much  humility. 

"Oh,  mother,  you  will  help  me  to  learn  that, " 
she  said.  "  I  have  done  no  good  in  my  whole 
life, — no  good,  only  evil.  I  should  like  to  be 
different.  I  should  like  to  help  and  comfort 
others, — others  who  perhaps  are  more  sad  than 
I.  Perhaps  I  can  do  this,  if  you  will  show  me 
how.  It  would  be  sweet  to  me,  mother, — almost 
too  sweet." 

Her  lip  trembled,  as  with  the  timid  sadness 
of  a  child,  whose  mind  cannot  formulate  what 
its  heart  feels. 

"  I  will  give  you  all  the  help  I  can,  my  child, 
but  it  will  be  chiefly  love.  You  will  not  need 
other  help.  The  light  will  come  to  you  from 
within,  and  you  will  know  what  to  do  and  have 
power  to  do  it.  Believe  this,  my  daughter. 
Take  it  as  the  word  of  a  woman  who  has  proved 
God." 

"Mother  darling,"  said  Rhoda,  with  a  sort 
of  timid  hesitation,  as  if  the  endearment  were  a 
thing  which  she  felt  herself  almost  too  bold  in 
using,  "  I  want  to  be  very  truthful  with  you.  I 


1 32  DEAD   SELVES. 

want  you  to  love  me  knowing  all  my  faults :  so 
I  must  tell  you  that  I  am  not  as  religious,  I  fear, 
as  you  would  like  me  to  be, — as  you  no  doubt 
think  that  I  am.  I  should  like  to  tell  you  exactly 
how  I  feel.  I  feel  that  I  would  love  God  if  I 
knew  Him;  but  I  don't  feel  that  I  know  Him, 
and  I  have  a  feeling,  too,  that  I  had  perhaps 
better  not  try  to  get  near  Him.  He  is  so  high, 
so  pure,  so  far  above.  I  shrink  from  the  thought 
of  the  white  light  of  His  goodness.  He  in 
tended  women  to  be  so  exalted,  so  holy  and 
undefiled " 

At  the  utterance  of  these  last  words  a  spasm 
contracted  Rhoda's  face,  and  her  whole  body 
shrank  and  trembled,  until  she  dropped  upon 
her  knees  and  buried  her  face  in  the  older 
woman's  lap.  Mrs.  Fraser,  as  she  laid  her 
loving  hands  upon  that  beautiful  bowed  head, 
felt  such  a  deepening  of  the  mother-yearning 
in  her  heart  that  her  voice  was  tremulous  with 
it  as  she  said : 

"  God's  ideal  of  women  must  surely  be  ever 
the  holy  and  undefiled,  but  I  think  He  meant 
them  to  become  so  by  knowledge  of  both  good 
and  evil,  and  choice  between  them.  Else  why 
did  He  not  at  once  make  them  angels  ?  Inno 
cence  seems  to  us  a  beautiful  thing,  and  so  it  is, 


DEAD   SELVES.  133 

in  an  angel  or  a  child,  but  knowledge  and  vic 
tory  are  better.  You  have  had  that  knowledge, 
my  daughter,  and  it  may  have  shown  you  very 
terrible  things,  but  so  will  the  victory  be  the 
more  glorious.  To  me  it  would  seem  a  lower 
ing  process  for  the  human  race  to  be  turned  into 
angels ;  I  once  heard  a  strong  man  utter  this 
conviction,  that,  when  man  fell,  he  fell  up. " 

Rhoda  had  hushed  her  sobs  to  listen.  She 
had  raised  her  head,  and,  with  flushed  cheeks 
and  dishevelled  hair,  was  straining  her  fever 
ishly  brilliant  eyes  to  read  in  the  calm  old  face 
above  her  the  meaning  of  those  wonderful,  com 
fort-giving  words. 

"Oh,  mother,  mother,  mother!"  she  said. 
"  You  seem  to  me  the  very  voice  and  messenger 
of  God,  when  you  give  me  such  hopes  as  that. 
You  think,  then,  you  do  think,  that  if  I  do  my 
best,  if  I  try  with  all  the  power  of  my  soul  to 
atone, — to  do  right,  no  matter  how  hard  it  may 
be, — God  will  accept  my  atonement  and  make 
my  wicked  heart  feel  clean  and  good  at  last?" 

"My  child,  I  do  not  think  so.  There  are 
some  things  which  we  cannot  be  certain  about, 
but  this  is  not  one  of  them.  You  have  not  told 
me  what  this  need  of  atonement  within  you  is, 
and  I  do  not  ask ;  but,  whatever  it  may  be,  the 


i34  DEAD   SELVES. 

work  is  already  begun.  The  wish  to  atone  is 
atonement  in  itself.  The  moment  that  a  soul 
wishes  for  God,  it  has  Him.  Do  you  not  feel 
Him  in  your  heart?" 

Rhoda  was  holding  both  of  the  aged  hands 
in  a  strong,  compelling  pressure,  as  if  she  would 
force  help  from  them. 

"Mother,"  she  said,  "what  it  is  that  I  feel, 
I  do  not  know.  Perhaps  you  can  help  me  to 
understand.  I  feel  lately  in  my  heart  something 
that  was  not  there  before.  I  do  not  know 
whether  I  love  God  or  not.  But,  oh,  I  do 
know  that,  above  all  things,  I  love  goodness, 
and  that  I  would  pay  any  price  to  have  it  !" 

"  How  can  goodness  be  anything  but  God, 
or  God  anything  but  goodness  ?  Yes,  my  child, 
there  are  ways  that  I  can  help  you,  just  by  show 
ing  you  those  very  simple  things.  You  are  God's 
child.  You  are  fighting  hard  against  evil  and 
in  the  cause  of  good.  In  that  struggle  your 
heavenly  Father  will  be  with  you." 

"  I  never  had  a  father  on  earth,"  said  Rhoda, 
"nor  a  mother,  until  you.  They  died  almost 
before  I  could  remember,  and  there  was  no  one 
to  take  their  place.  Perhaps  God  will  remem 
ber  that  and  not  blame  me  too  much.  I  am 
willing  to  be  punished, — I  need  and  I  accept 


DEAD   SELVES.  135 

that, — for  it  was  a  terrible,  a  hideous  thing  that 
I  did." 

She  wrenched  her  hands  from  her  companion's 
clasp  and  covered  her  face  with  them.  Around 
their  white  edges  the  flush  from  her  cheeks 
glowed  with  a  color  almost  violent. 

"  Rhoda,  can  you  not  tell  me?  I  would  not 
force  a  word,  my  child ;  but  I  might  be  able  to 
give  you  some  relief  from  this  pain  that  you  are 
bearing. ' ' 

At  these  words  Rhoda  lowered  her  hands,  and 
her  face  went  suddenly  white. 

"Tell  me,"  she  said,  a  tense,  repressed,  al 
most  stolid  look  coming  into  her  face,  "  tell  me 
how  much  you  know. ' ' 

"  How  much  I  know  of  what?" 

"  Of  my  marriage,"  was  the  stern  reply. 

"  Do  you  mean  the  first,  my  child,  or " 

"I  mean,"  said  Rhoda,  with  ruthless  inter 
ruption,  "  I  mean  my  marriage  with  that  poor 
creature  who  was,  for  two  years,  my  husband, 
and  the  father  of  that  deformed  and  horror- 
smitten  being  of  whom  I  am  the  mother. ' ' 

"I  know  nothing,  my  poor  dear  one, — noth 
ing  but  the  fact." 

"  It  seems  to  you  utterly  strange  and  unreal, 
I  suppose.  Whatever  version  of  it  you  may 


136  DEAD   SELVES. 

have  heard,  it  seems  now  something  far  off  and 
far  back.  Will  you  believe  me,  then,  when  I 
say  that  to  me  it  seems  to  get  nearer  and  nearer, 
more  and  more  real,  actual,  significant,  present  ? 
You  cannot  realize  this,  but  it  is  so.  At  the 
time,  it  was  vague,  misty,  uncomprehended,  and 
the  whole  experience  was  like  a  dull  dream  to  me. 
Now  every  act  and  sensation  of  it  is  acute  and 
keen,  until  my  spirit  seems  a  string  strung  up  to 
the  highest  pitch  of  endurance  and  strained  con 
tinually  to  those  vibrations  of  torture." 

She  had  drawn  herself  into  a  sitting  posture 
on  the  floor,  and  clasped  her  hands  about  her 
knees.  Her  face  was  colorless,  her  lips  tense, 
as  she  sat  looking  away  from  her  companion ; 
and  she  went  on,  in  a  monotonous  voice  that 
had  a  certain  hardness  in  it,  which  her  com 
panion  had  never  heard  there  before. 

"I  was  young,"  she  said,  "only  seventeen. 
I  had  had  a  lonely  childhood,  with  nothing  to 
develop  either  my  affections  or  my  mind.  I  was 
not  naturally  loving,  I  think,  and  not  clever.  I 
must  have  seemed  just  a  dull  and  ignorant  girl, 
with  what  people  said  was  beauty.  I  did  not 
know  even  this,  until  they  told  me,  and  then  I 
began  to  care  to  dress  and  look  well  and  to  have 
people  look  at  me.  I  was  poor,  and  I  knew  I 


DEAD   SELVES.  137 

was  a  burden  to  the  relations  who  let  me  live 
with  them.  I  wished  that  I  could  rid  them  of 
that  care  and  get  into  a  pleasanter  life,  but  I  did 
not  know  any  way.  I  think  I  had  neither  the 
courage  nor  the  imagination  to  make  a  way  ;  but 
when  one  opened  before  me  I  took  it  gladly.  It 
offered  riches,  ease,  travel,  dress,  amusement, 
and  opportunity  of  every  kind.  I  never  thought 
of  love ;  indeed,  I  knew  nothing  about  it.  You 
do  not  know, — you,  perhaps,  have  not  heard 

"  She  broke  off,  her  voice  trembling.  In 

a  moment,  however,  she  recovered  herself,  and 
went  on  in  a  slightly  hardened  tone.  "  I  will 
tell  you  all.  I  want  you  to  know.  The  man 
who  offered  me  all  this,  through  whom  came 
my  release  from  a  dull  life  of  which  I  was 
weary,  was  almost  an  imbecile.  Did  you  know 
this?" 

"  I  have  heard  something — I  knew  there  was 
something  like  that,  my  poor  dear  child." 

Rhoda  looked  at  her  as  if  puzzled. 

''Why  do  you  pity  me?"  she  said,  still  in 
that  hard,  cold  tone.  "I  did  it  myself.  No 
one  forced  me.  I  got  all  that  I  bargained  for. 
I  was  not  even  unhappy." 

"If  you  were  not  unhappy,  you  were  dead, 
and  that  is  worse." 


i38  DEAD   SELVES. 

"Yes,  I  was  dead,"  she  said.  "How  won 
derfully  you  understand  !  But  it  was  not  death 
after  life :  it  was  just  death  going  on,  for  I  had 
never  lived.  I  do  not  remember  that  any  one 
ever  said  that  I  was  dull  and  stupid,  but  I  must 
have  been,  with  no  sensibilities,  no  hopes,  no 
fears,  no  ideals.  If  I  had  had  one  ideal  in  my 
life  it  might  have  saved  me,  but  I  had  not  one. 
Worst  of  all,  I  had  no  ideal  of  myself, — nothing 
to  be  desecrated  or  lowered.  I  do  not  under 
stand  this ;  I  only  know  it.  Where  others  get 
their  ideals  from,  I  do  not  know.  I  simply 
know  that  I  had  none." 

She  paused  an  instant,  and  then,  as  if  in  a 
hurry  to  be  done,  went  on  : 

"  I  married  that  man,  that  poor,  weak,  irre 
sponsible,  harmless  being,  and  I  got  money,  and 
what  might  have  been  power,  only  I  was  too 
ignorant  to  use  it.  Of  course  I  was  despised 
for  such  a  marriage.  Of  course  the  world  was 
revolted ;  but  I  never  knew  it.  How  much 
more  revolted  would  it  have  been,  had  it  known 
that  I  was  contented  with  my  bargain  !  You 
have  been  imagining,  perhaps,  the  wretchedness 
of  my  awakening ;  but  I  never  waked.  It  was 
a  dull,  comfortable  magnificence,  for  which,  of 
course,  I  paid  a  price.  I  was  not,  however, 


DEAD   SELVES.  139 

ashamed  or  mortified  about  it.  Shame,  like  my 
other  sensibilities,  was  dead,  in  the  sense  of 
never  having  lived.  I  did  not  know  that  the 
world  despised  me,  and  I  had  no  light  by  which 
I  could  despise  myself.  When  that  child  was 
born'1' — she  caught  her  breath,  with  a  sort  of 
gasp,  but  hurried  on — ' '  and  when  I  looked  at 
it,  I  suffered  then ;  but  only  until  I  could  get  it 
out  of  my  sight.  I  don't  think  I  minded  very 
much  after  that.  I  was  not  happy, — I  had  not 
the  consciousness  that  is  needed  to  be  happy, — 
but  I  was  not  wretched  and  miserable  and  peni 
tent,  as  I  should  have  been, — as  I  suppose  a 
high  type  of  woman  would  have  been.  Oh, 
what  am  I  doing?"  She  broke  off  suddenly, 
turning  to  look  her  companion  in  the  face. 
"Am  I  killing  your  love  for  me, — the  one  pre 
cious  thing  that  I  have?"  Her  look  was  so 
agitated,  so  frightened,  so  desperate,  that  the 
kind  old  woman  felt  she  could  hardly  bear  it. 
Leaning  forward,  she  stretched  out  both  arms 
and  drew  the  tragic  young  face  toward  her  until 
it  was  hidden  against  her  heart. 

"  My  own  child,"  she  said,  tenderly,  "  I  can 
not  bear  to  let  you  say  another  word.  You  have 
told  me  enough:  indeed,  you  have  told  me  all,  for 
I  understand  what  has  not  been  spoken.  I  know 


1 40  DEAD   SELVES. 

how  all  that  happened,  darling.  You  have  had 
two  selves, — an  old  self  and  a  new  self.  If  you 
had  done  that  thing  as  the  person  that  you  are 
now,  you  would  be  degraded  by  it,  because  you 
would  be  sinning  against  light.  You  did  it  in 
darkness  and  ignorance,  and  your  suffering  has 
been  great." 

As  she  ended,  Rhoda  raised  her  head  and 
looked  up.  Her  face  was  wonderfully  beautiful, 
profoundly  sad,  and  yet  penetrated  by  a  ray  of 
exquisite  hope. 

"Oh,  mother,"  she  said,  "what  words  of 
comfort !  What  hope,  what  joy  they  have  shed 
in  my  heart !  If  only  you  will  let  me  cling  to 
you,  if  only  you  will  hold  on  close  to  me,  I  can 
go  on  and  walk  the  path  that  I  now  see  stretched 
before  me.  My  suffering  is  hard, — harder  than 
you  dream, — but  I  can  bear  it.  One  strange 
part  of  it  is  that  it  seems  to  have  only  just  be 
gun.  It  is  only  lately  that  I  have  realized  the 
hideous  wrong  that  I  did  in  bringing  that  poor 
creature  into  the  world,  and  it  stays  with  me  all 
the  time  now,  an  unending  reproach  and  pain. 
And  yet  even  that  is  not  the  worst.  I  have  a 
pang  to  bear  that  is  greater  than  that.  Oh,  how 
good  you  are  to  let  me  open  my  heart  to  you 
and  to  love  me  a  little  !  If  you,  a  woman  so 


DEAD   SELVES.  141 

high  and  noble,  do  not  think  me  beyond  the 
reach  of  love,  perhaps  God  will  not  either.  Can 
you  imagine  what  it  would  be  to  have  an  ideal 
of  yourself  given  to  you  for  the  first  time,  and 
to  measure  by  that  ideal  the  depth  of  your  own 
abasement?  Lately,  since  this  ideal  has  risen 
in  my  soul,  I  have  had  a  feeling  that  both  God 
and  man  must  shrink  at  the  very  sight  and 
thought  of  me." 

The  old  lady  bent  and  kissed  her  tenderly  on 
brow  and  eyes  and  lips.  Then,  taking  in  hers 
the  beautiful  young  hand  which  wore  the  wed 
ding-ring,  she  stroked  it  gently  with  her  own 
pale  hand,  on  which  the  same  symbol,  thin  with 
wear,  hung  loosely. 

"  Rhoda, "  she  said,  "  I  love  you,  not  a  little 
as  you  say,  but  with  a  great,  deep,  tender  love 
that  is  just  the  same,  I  think,  as  if  you  were  my 
own  dear  daughter  who  had  so  made  a  mistake 
and  so  realized  and  repented  it.  It  was  not  sin. 
You  had  not  then  the  light  which  makes  it  sin. 
If  you  were  to  do  it  now,  a  sin  indeed  it  would 
be  ;  but,  ah,  how  impossible  would  it  be  to  you 
now  !" 

She  looked  at  Rhoda  with  a  fond  confi 
dence,  but,  instead  of  returning  her  smile, 
Rhoda  frowned  and  shuddered. 


142  DEAD   SELVES. 

"Now?"  she  said.  "Now?  Now?  Oh, 
how  horrible  !" 

The  agony  of  her  face  was  piteous.  Mrs. 
Fraser  felt  that  she  must  end  this  scene. 

"Rhoda,"  she  said,  in  her  strong,  decided 
tones,  "  we  understand  each  other  now.  Let  us 
stop  this  conversation  here,  and  never  return  to 
it  again.  The  whole  sad  truth  is  before  us.  You 
have  done  your  best,  and  angels  can  do  no 
more." 

"  Oh,  no,  mother  dearest,  I  have  not  done 
my  best.  I  am  only  beginning  to  learn  what  to 
do.  I  am  trying,  and  I  will  go  on  trying,  and 
you  will  help  me.  Besides  your  love  and  your 
belief  in  me,  you  will  help  me  about  some 
practical  things.  I  found  out,  when  I  went 
to  that  sad  place  to  bring  away  my  child, 
that  they  very  often  have  applications  from 
people  who  are  too  poor  to  pay  their  charges, 
and  I  am  trying  to  remedy  this,  in  the  best 
way  that  is  practical.  I  am  going  to  give  a 
great  deal  of  money  for  it,  and  you  will  help 
me  to  do  this  wisely,  so  that  it  may  really  do 
good." 

"Yes,  dear;  but  I  am  only  an  old  woman, 
and  I  think  a  man's  advice  and  experience  are 
needed  here.  You  had  best  consult  Duncan " 


DEAD   SELVES.  143 

She  stopped,  checked  by  the  look  on  Rhoda's 
face. 

"Mother,"  she  said,  controlling  herself  by 
an  effort,  "you  understand  so  well  in  other 
things,  try  to  understand  also  in  this.  I  can 
not  ask  help  of  your  son  there.  I  am  willing 
to  suffer, — God  knows  it, — but  that  mortifica 
tion  is  more  than  I  can  bear.  You  will  see  how 
things  are  between  us,  mother,  and  you  will  let 
them  be.  I  think  you  will  comprehend  enough 
not  even  to  speak  to  him  of  my  confidences  to 
you.  You  can  be,  you  are,  the  angel  of  my  life, 
in  every  other  way,  but  that  one  place  you  can 
not  touch,  except  to  hurt.  Dear  mother,  try  to 
take  my  word  for  this.  You  long  only  to  do 
good ;  but  there  you  would  do  a  harm  which 
could  never  be  repaired." 

"  Do  not  fear  it,  child.  I  feel  that  you  are 
right.  I  love  my  son,  but  I  also  love  my 
daughter,  and  this  wish  of  yours  is  a  sacred 
obligation  to  me.  Oh,  Rhoda,  my  child,  take 
courage.  In  my  long  life,  1  have  so  often  seen 
such  beautiful  good  come  out  of  the  darkest 
evil.  Remember  continually  that 


1  Men  may  rise  on  stepping-stones 
Of  their  dead  selves  to  higher  things.1  " 


144  DEAD  SELVES. 

"  Oh,  what  wonderful,  glorious,  beautiful 
words  ! ' '  said  Rhoda.  ' '  Thank  you  for  giving 
them  to  me,  to  think  of  and  try  to  realize." 

Mrs.  Fraser  looked  at  her  in  surprise.  Was 
it  possible,  she  wondered,  that  the  words  were 
new  to  Rhoda?  It  had  that  appearance,  cer 
tainly,  but  it  seemed  incredible.  She  was  just 
beginning  to  see  into  the  strange  ego  of  this 
woman.  Her  appearance,  that  of  a  proud,  re 
served,  highly  developed  woman  of  the  world, 
made  her  personality  very  impressive  to  all  who 
saw  her.  Though  she  talked  little,  it  would 
have  been  supposed  that  this  came  from  her 
mental  superiority  to  those  about  her,  rather 
than  from  the  opposite  cause.  People  stood 
somewhat  in  awe  of  her,  as  a  rule,  and  were 
afraid  that  their  words  might  seem  trivial  to  a 
woman  who  looked  so  thoughtful,  so  grave,  so 
full  of  reserve  force.  And  yet,  had  the  veriest 
school-girl  among  them  sounded  the  depths  of 
Rhoda' s  knowledge  of  books  and  every  kind 
of  intellectual  learning,  she  would  probably 
have  had  her  at  a  disadvantage.  In  the  deeper 
lore  of  knowledge  of  the  human  heart,  how 
ever,  poor  Rhoda  was  beginning  to  be  well 
versed. 


XIV 

1  ^RASER,  who  had  gone  away  to  stay  three 
A  weeks,  returned  in  two.  He  had  not 
announced  his  coming,  and  so  was  not  expected. 
On  reaching  the  house,  he  went  at  once  to  his 
own  apartment. 

The  room  which  had  been  given  to  his  mother 
was  next  his  own,  and,  as  it  happened,  the  door 
between  them  was  ajar.  It  was  but  the  smallest 
crack,  but  through  it  the  sound  of  voices  reached 
him,  his  mother's  and  Rhoda's.  They  were 
pitched  in  a  key  of  friendly  argument,  and 
sounded  cheerful,  free,  and  familiar.  He  knew 
that  tone  well  in  the  older  voice,  but  he  found 
it  distinctly  strange  in  the  other.  He  stepped 
to  the  door  and  stood  there,  looking  into  the 
room  beyond.  His  movements  on  the  thick 
carpet  had  not  been  heard. 

The  two  women  had  been  occupied,  and  had 
interrupted  themselves  for  this  spontaneous  talk. 
Mrs.  Fraser  had  an  open  book  in  her  lap,  and 
Rhoda  had  just  laid  down  some  sewing,  and 
still  wore  a  thimble.  He  had  never  seen  her 
10  145 


146  DEAD   SELVES. 

sew  before,  and  in  truth  she  was  only  now 
meekly  learning  the  art  from  her  companion, 
who  was  exquisitely  proficient  in  it.  The  old 
lady,  in  her  black  dress  and  transparent  cap  and 
kerchief,  was  looking  eager  and  interested,  and 
the  beautiful  young  being,  who  sat  facing  her, 
was  not  less  so.  Eraser  almost  started  as  he 
looked  at  her.  Never  for  a  single  instant  had 
he  seen  her  look  like  this.  The  reserve,  which 
was  a  habit  of  self-consciousness,  was  gone,  and 
Rhoda,  her  free,  natural,  sympathetic  self,  was 
there.  She  wore  her  hair  in  the  long  plait  which 
was  generally  her  coiffure  for  comfort,  and  Eraser 
felt  a  new  sense  of  reality  about  her. 

"So  you  think  Rochester  was  not  good 
enough  for  Jane?"  said  the  old  lady.  "I 
don't  like  that  idea.  I  think  Jane  knew  what 
she  was  about  when  she  called  him  '  my  likeness 
and  my  equal.'  I  always  loved  that  so." 

The  zest  with  which  the  old  lady  rapped  out 
the  quotation  from  her  favorite  book  was  as 
ardent  as  any  girl's. 

"No,  Jane  was  the  better  and  finer  of  the 
two,"  said  Rhoda,  "  and  that  I  can't  forgive. 
The  man  should  be  the  superior." 

"But  I  deny  that  Rochester  was  the  inferior. 
I  can't  have  a  word  said  against  him." 


DEAD   SELVES.  147 

"I'm  not  saying  anything  against  him, 
mother  dear,  only  that  he  is  not  the  type  of  man 
that  I  admire." 

"Oh,  as  to  types,  that's  neither  here  nor 
there.  He  was  himself,  and  I  would  not  have 
him  changed  in  any  particular.  He  and  Jane 
have  been  my  most  intimate  friends  and  com 
panions  for  years,  and  I  can't  see  a  flaw  in 
either.  Do  you  know,  my  dear,  that  I  number 
among  my  most  fervent  thanksgivings  the  fact 
that  I  lived  in  the  world  after  Charlotte  Bronte 
instead  of  before  her  ?' ' 

"  I  can  understand.  I  feel  just  the  same 
about  George  Eliot.  And  just  think  how  long 
it  was  before  I  knew  what  a  heritage  I  possessed 
in  books !  I  feel  that  I  want  to  read  every 
minute,  to  make  up  for  my  lost  time,  and  one 
reading  is  so  far  too  little  for  the  things  I  love. 
How  many  times  do  you  suppose  I  shall  read 
'  In  Memoriam'  over  ?  And  but  for  your  quot 
ing  to  me  that  line  about  our  rising  on  stepping- 
stones  of  our  dead  selves,  I  might  never  have 
opened  the  book.  Mother  darling,"  she 
added,  impulsively,  with  a  sudden  change  and 
softening  of  tone,  "  I  have  taxed  your  precious 
patience  very  often  with  sad  and  gloomy  talk, 
but  I  think  I  am  going  to  get  out  of  that.  I 


148  DEAD   SELVES. 

think  I  am  going  to  learn  to  follow  the  example 
of  your  cheerfulness,  and  try  to  brighten  the 
world  a  little,  if  I  can.  Now,  when  I  speak  of 
my  dead  self  a  little  comfort  seems  to  come 
into  my  heart  that  that  old  self  is  dead,  and  that 
by  putting  my  feet  upon  it  I  may  rise  to  higher 
things.  Oh,  mother,  I  have  so  eaten  my  heart 
out  with  regret ;  but  I  shall  learn  not  to  regret 
anything,  if  I  am  getting  to  be  a  better  woman. 
It  is  you,  you,  mother,  who  are  teaching  me 
this  lesson.  Oh,  how  I  love  you,  how  I  bless 
you,  how  I  thank  you  ! ' ' 

Never  had  Eraser  seen  the  face  of  the  woman 
whom  he  had  married  glorified  by  such  a  look 
as  this.  He  felt  no  pleasure  in  her  heightened 
beauty,  however ;  the  only  feeling  that  he  was 
conscious  of  was  one  of  deep-rooted,  intense 
resentment. 

Every  moment  this  increased,  as  he  now  saw 
the  two  women  who  were  nearest  to  him  in  the 
world  engaged  in  this  intimate,  familiar,  con 
fidential  talk  and  felt  himself  completely  an 
outsider.  They  were  evidently  thinking  of  him 
as  little  as  they  were  speaking  of  him  ! 

At  Rhoda's  last  words  she  had  stretched  out 
her  strong  hand  and  clasped  the  little  thin  one 
of  her  companion.  At  that  touch  the  need  of 


DEAD   SELVES.  149 

a  yet  closer  one  came  to  them  ;  they  leaned  to 
ward  each  other  and  kissed. 

"My  mother,  my  own  little,  precious 
mother,"  Rhoda  said,  putting  her  two  firm  hands 
against  those  thin  and  withered  cheeks  and 
looking  deep  into  the  older  woman's  eyes.  "  I 
have  been  very  unhappy,  mother  dear,  in  my 
short  life,  but  I  would  be  willing  to  bear  a  great 
deal  of  unhappiness  for  the  joy  of  having  won 
your  love ;  and  it  was  my  unhappiness  that 
brought  you  to  me,  that  made  me  turn  to 
you." 

These  words  so  gently  spoken,  and  this  sight 
so  simply  affectionate,  stirred  in  the  man  who 
heard  and  watched  them  a  yet  deeper  sense 
of  injury  and  irritation.  To  hear  Rhoda  say 
"  Mother"  was  in  itself  a  shock  to  him.  How 
could  his  mother  be  her  mother,  except  through 
him? — and  yet  how  utterly  was  he  forgotten 
and  ignored  !  There  was  a  degree  of  intimacy 
and  familiarity  between  these  two  which  made 
a  sharp  contrast  to  the  intercourse  of  Rhoda 
and  himself.  He  resented  this  fact,  and  his 
resentment  included  both  women. 

Fraser  turned  from  the  door  with  a  feeling 
of  aversion  to  the  sight.  Why  had  he  hurried 
back  ?  Avowedly  to  himself,  it  had  been  to  see 


150  DEAD   SELVES. 

his  mother,  but  now  it  was  so  evident  that  he 
was  not  missed  that  he  called  himself  a  fool  for 
his  pains. 

Still  treading  cautiously,  he  went  down-stairs 
and  out  into  the  street,  without  having  spoken 
to  either  his  mother  or  Rhoda. 

He  returned  shortly  before  dinner,  and  went 
immediately  to  his  room  to  dress.  He  had  sent 
word  to  Rhoda  that  he  had  arrived,  and  as  she 
wished  to  avoid  a  meeting  with  him  in  his 
mother's  presence,  she  tapped  at  the  door  of  his 
dressing-room  on  her  way  down. 

Receiving  permission  to  enter,  she  opened 
the  door  and  passed  just  across  the  threshold. 

The  image  of  her  which  he  had  so  lately  seen 
was  distinct  upon  his  mind,  and  the  contrast 
which  she  now  presented  to  it  gave  him  a  sense 
of  inherent  change. 

She  was  carefully  dressed  for  dinner,  and  her 
rich  hair  was  twisted  into  its  noble  coronal. 
Her  manner  was  absolutely  cool,  but  he  thought 
he  observed  in  it  a  little  more  cheerfulness  than 
usual,  and  he  construed  it  to  be  an  attempt  on 
her  part  to  impose  upon  his  mother,  and  per 
haps  to  make  it  appear  that  they  were  in  some 
measure  on  such  terms  as  she  would  wish. 
Formerly  he  would  have  felt  inclined  to  second 


DEAD   SELVES.  151 

her  in  this,  but  now  he  had  an  impulse  to 
thwart  her. 

"How  nice  of  you  to  get  back  so  soon!" 
said  Rhoda.  "  I  am  sure  your  mother  will 
appreciate  the  effort  you  have  made  to  enjoy  at 
least  a*  part  of  her  visit.  I  have  done  my  best 
to  make  her  happy  here,  but  of  course  I  am  not 
you." 

These  words  and  the  little  smile  which  ac 
companied  them  were  rather  more  familiar 
than  her  usual  attitude  toward  him ;  and  even 
this  fed  that  resentment  which  flamed  within 
him. 

"I  did  not  return  on  that  account,"  said 
Fraser.  "  It  was  business  that  brought  me." 

"  Still,  she  doesn't  know  that,  and  there's  no 
reason  why  she  should.  So,  suppose  we  keep  it 
a  secret  between  us." 

Here  again  was  implied  a  degree  of  confi 
dence  and  community  which  provoked  him. 
He  knew  perfectly  well  that  Rhoda  was  ini 
tiating  a  certain  change  in  their  manner  to 
ward  each  other,  for  the  sake  of  misleading  his 
mother,  and  the  knowledge  seemed  to  rasp  his 
nerves. 

He  made  no  answer  to  her  last  words,  and, 
seeing  that  he  was  fully  dressed,  Rhoda  said  : 


152  DEAD   SELVES. 

" Shall  we  go  down  now?" 

This  was  worse  still.  He  could  scarcely  keep 
the  irritation  out  of  his  voice,  as  he  said : 

"I  am  not  quite  ready.  I  will  not  trouble 
you  to  wait  for  me." 

"  It  isn't  any  trouble,"  said  Rhoda.  "  I  will 
just  walk  on  and  wait  for  you  at  the  head  of  the 
stairs." 

It  was  impossible  to  decline  this ;  and  so,  a 
moment  later,  Fraser  found  himself  walking  at 
her  side  down  the  stairway,  and  it  angered  him 
all  the  more  to  feel  that  he  was  so  profoundly 
disturbed  inwardly  that  he  dreaded  giving  out 
ward  proof  of  it.  Rhoda,  on  the  other  hand, 
was  perfectly  mistress  of  herself,  and  kept  up  a 
light  and  easy  strain  of  talk,  until  they  entered 
the  drawing-room  where  Mrs.  Fraser  was. 

Her  delightful  old  face  glowed  with  pleasure 
as  she  welcomed  her  son  and  returned  his  kiss. 
Even  his  inward  disturbance  and  preoccupation 
could  not  prevent  his  giving  her  a  greeting  of 
real  affection.  So  they  went  in  to  dinner,  to 
every  appearance  a  happy  family  party.  There 
was,  however,  a  certain  sense  of  strain,  which 
Fraser  undoubtedly  felt  most  of  the  three. 

In  Rhoda  the  effect  of  this  feeling  was 
to  cause  an  unusual  exhilaration,  and  Mrs. 


DEAD   SELVES.  153 

Eraser's  presence  gave  her  such  a  sense  of  sup 
port  and  sympathy  that  she  talked  far  more  than 
usual,  and  talked  well.  The  naturalness  with 
which  she  had  learned  to  say  "  Mother"  was  a 
surprise^to  Eraser,  and  the  evident  congeniality 
between  the  two  women  seemed  to  bring  out 
what  was  best  in  the  minds  of  both.  The  con 
versation  certainly  did  not  drag,  but  Eraser  was 
somehow  very  much  out  of  it.  He  felt  the  ex 
istence  of  a  sympathy  between  his  mother  and 
Rhoda  which  certainly  did  not  exist  between 
himself  and  either  of  them.  The  talk  was  all 
between  the  two  women,  and  their  efforts  to 
draw  him  into  it  were  so  sparely  successful  that 
they  soon  abandoned  them.  He  became  aware, 
however,  that  they  were  doing  without  him  ex 
tremely  well,  and,  in  spite  of  himself,  he  was 
forced  to  acknowledge  that  the  talk  was  inter 
esting.  He  had  forgotten  how  good  a  talker 
his  mother  was,  and  he  was  now  proving,  for 
the  first  time,  how  good  a  one  Rhoda  was. 
There  was  force  and  originality  in  the  old  lady's 
ideas,  and  there  was  the  wonderful  charm  of 
independent  thinking. 

If  his  mother's  talk  and  points  of  view  were 
interesting  to  him,  Rhoda's  were  far  more  so. 
He  had  but  a  slight  acquaintance  with  the 


154  DEAD   SELVES. 

mind  of  the  woman  he  had  married,  and  now, 
in  its  fresh  awakening  to  the  deeper  meaning  of 
life,  there  was  an  earnestness,  a  vigor,  a  naivete, 
which  had  an  extraordinary  charm.  He  saw 
how  completely  his  mother  was  under  the 
spell  of  this  charm,  but  this  only  added  to  the 
smouldering  store  of  resentment  which  was 
growing  hourly  within  him. 

When  the  meal  ended,  he  was  glad  to  plead 
a  business  engagement  and  to  go  out.  He 
stayed  an  hour  or  two,  and,  on  his  return,  found 
them  still  together  in  the  drawing-room,  talking 
as  interestedly  as  ever. 


XV 

» 

IT  was  perhaps  a  relief  to  all  when  Mrs. 
Fraser  went  home.  She  felt  it  borne  in 
upon  her  that  she  was  doing  no  good  here,  and, 
dear  to  her  as  was  her  intimacy  with  Rhoda, 
she  had  a  feeling  that  she  was  dividing,  rather 
than  uniting,  her  son  and  daughter.  It  even 
seemed  to  her  that  Duncan  was  constrained  in 
his  intercourse  with  herself,  and  a  little  less 
affectionate  than  formerly. 

Rhoda,  though  she  keenly  missed  the  rare 
companionship  she  had  recently  enjoyed,  had 
felt  herself  under  a  sense  of  greater  strain  in 
her  intercourse  with  Fraser,  and  could  not 
help  being  conscious  of  the  reproof  to  him  im 
plied  by  the  old  lady's  loving  attitude  toward 
herself. 

And  Fraser  was  perhaps  the  most  relieved  of 
the  three.  He  felt  that  his  mother  had  been 
playing  a  part  in  pretending  to  see  nothing 
strange  in  the  intercourse  of  Rhoda  and  him 
self;  he  felt  that  Rhoda  had  been  playing  a 
part  to  support  this  idea,  and  he  knew  well  that 

155 


156  DEAD   SELVES. 

he  had  played  a  part  himself,  though  he  would 
not  own  to  his  own  heart  what  that  deception 
had  been. 

When  the  mother  had  gone,  an  attitude  more 
distant  and  reserved  than  any  they  had  ever 
known  before  was,  as  if  by  common  consent, 
established  between  Rhoda  and  Fraser.  They 
appeared  in  public  together,  as  usual,  but,  except 
when  appearances  required  it,  they  rarely  spoke. 
He  seemed  busier  than  ever  at  Brockett,  but  he 
never  voluntarily  spoke  to  her  of  his  work,  and 
she  never  asked  a  question. 

There  was  a  change  in  Rhoda.  Fraser  both 
saw  and  felt  it.  The  visible  evidence  consisted 
of  a  distinct  difference  in  her  attitude  toward 
the  world,  which  had  a  reciprocal  effect.  He 
noticed  that  she  talked  more  than  formerly,  and 
that,  without  effort,  she  attracted  to  herself  the 
men  and  women  of  force  in  whatever  company 
she  chanced  to  be.  He  was  accustomed  to  see 
ing  her  admired,  as  a  sort  of  distant  divinity, 
whom  no  one  knew  much  about,  but  now  there 
appeared  a  warm  human  interest  in  the  faces  of 
those  who  talked  to  her,  and  Fraser,  furtively 
watching  her  from  a  distance,  would  ask  him 
self  sometimes  why  it  was  that  the  woman  who 
had  consented  to  occupy  the  position  of  his  wife 


DEAD   SELVES.  157 

reserved  for  strangers  what  would  so  naturally 
have  been  his  own. 

Sometimes  he  was  near  enough  to  hear  bits  of 
her  talk,  and  he  could  not  wonder  that  her 
hearers  looked  interested.  Many  subjects  which 
were  old*  and  threadbare  to  others  were  new  and 
vital  to  her,  and  she  brought  to  them  a  fresh 
ness  and  spontaneousness  which  lent  a  unique 
charm.  This  added  to  her  social  position,  her 
fortune,  her  unusual  and  impressive  beauty, 
made  a  combination  which  was  not  to  be  ap 
proached  by  any  other  woman  in  society. 

For  so  long  Rhoda  had  been  considered  cold 
and  unapproachable  that  her  reaction  into  this 
fervid  animated  being  was  all  the  more  re 
markable.  Her  passionate  gratitude  to  Mrs. 
Eraser  for  the  sympathy  which  she  had  shown 
her,  in  her  time  of  need,  made  her  eager  to  pay 
the  debt  by  giving  the  same  help  to  others.  In 
stead  of  the  cold  and  distant  looks  with  which 
she  had  been  accustomed  to  meet  strangers, 
there  now  shone  in  her  eyes,  at  every  new  intro 
duction,  a  searching  light  of  desire  to  give  and 
to  take,  in  every  way  that  such  exchange  seemed 
possible.  This  drew  both  men  and  women  to 
her  like  a  magnet. 

She  never  went  into  the  world  now  without 


158  DEAD   SELVES. 

being  surrounded  by  people  eager  to  speak  with 
her  and  to  draw  upon  themselves  her  looks  and 
tones  of  gracious  sympathy.  Fraser  himself  was 
gaining  reputation  every  day  in  his  scientific 
achievements,  but  his  distinction  in  the  world, 
as  a  man  of  force  and  personal  importance,  was 
hardly  greater  than  Rhoda's  was  now  becoming, 
in  a  woman's  narrower  sphere.  People  spoke 
of  their  marriage  with  enthusiasm  as  the  mating 
of  two  great  beings. 

Now  that  Rhoda  had  made  herself  so  ap 
proachable  and  sympathetic,  people  of  every 
culte  and  tendency  came  to  her  with  their  special 
interests,  which  she  quickly  made  her  own. 
Philanthropists  found  her  eager  to  bestow  not 
only  her  money  but  her  time  and  interest  and 
to  cooperate  in  their  schemes.  Artists  and 
musicians  received  at  her  hands  in  some  in 
stances  money,  in  others  influence  and  encour 
agement,  according  to  their  need.  All  this  was 
seen  and  inwardly  commented  on  by  Fraser 
with  mingled  feelings  of  wonder,  annoyance, 
and  bitterness.  But  what  was  even  worse  was 
to  hear  Rhoda  talking  intelligently  to  other 
men  about  the  scientific  questions  into  which 
she  had  first  gained  an  insight  through  him  ! 
He  and  she  never  spoke  together  of  those  sub- 


DEAD   SELVES.  159 

jects  now,  and  he  was  forced  to  acknowledge 
that  the  fault  was  his.  Still,  he  resented  it,  and 
laid  it  up  against  Rhoda,  in  his  mind. 

The  lives  of  these  two  people  were  now  en 
tirely  apart.  It  was  only  on  the  bare  surface 
and  in  the  eyes  of  the  world  that  there  was  any 
intercourse  at  all  between  them.  Rhoda  left 
him  completely  alone,  and  made  no  effort  to 
get  the  least  insight  into  his  pursuits  or  occupa 
tions.  Fraser,  on  the  other  hand,  exercised 
now  a  careful  watchfulness  over  all  that  she 
did.  He  knew  her  goings  out  and  comings  in 
as  she  did  not  dream  of  knowing  his.  He 
knew  that  she  spent  a  part  of  every  day  with 
the  child  up-stairs,  and  that  no  engagements  or 
pressure  of  work  prevented  this.  He  had  formed 
the  habit  of  coming  home  from  Brockett  earlier 
than  formerly,  and  to  account  for  this  he  dab 
bled  at  some  writing,  which  he  said  he  could 
more  conveniently  accomplish  at  home. 

But  often,  very  often,  he  would  leave  his 
papers  on  the  desk  in  his  dressing-room  and 
creep  stealthily  along  the  narrow  back  passage 
which  led  to  the  old  workshop,  and  there  he 
would  shut  himself  in  and  wait  for  the  sound  of 
Rhoda' s  step  and  the  beautiful  music  which 
came  soon  after  it. 


160  DEAD   SELVES. 

With  his  body  flung  into  an  old  easy  chair, 
he  would  remain  motionless  for  an  hour  at  a 
time,  listening  thirstily.  He  passionately  loved 
music,  and  Rhoda's  playing  fed  that  passion  in 
a  way  that  he  had  not  known  before.  He  had 
never  asked  her  to  play  for  him,  however ;  he 
recoiled  from  the  very  thought. 

Rhoda  was  not  a  great  musician,  but  her  play 
ing  was  unusual,  and  the  social  vogue  which  was 
now  hers  won  admiration  for  all  that  she  did. 
So  when  she  played  in  company,  as  she  occa 
sionally  did,  her  music  roused  positive  enthu 
siasm.  Ardent  as  were  the  compliments  which 
she  received,  not  one  of  them  had  ever  come 
from  Fraser.  If  she  observed  this,  however, 
she  gave  no  sign. 

It  had  become  a  common  thing  for  Fraser,  on 
his  return  in  the  afternoon,  to  hear  interested 
voices  in  the  drawing-room,  among  which  Rhoda's 
was  distinguishable,  and  to  catch  glimpses  of 
charming  groups  of  people,  for  whom  Rhoda 
was  pouring  tea.  There  was  still  another  scene 
which  he  had  looked  in  upon  now  and  then, — 
Rhoda,  with  earnest  face  and  eager  voice,  seated 
absorbed  in  talk  with  a  man  who  responded  with 
fervor  to  every  word  and  look.  It  was  no 
especial  man,  for  he  had  seen  two  or  three  dif- 


DEAD   SELVES.  161 

ferent  ones  whom  he  knew  to  be  eminent  in 
philanthropy,  art,  politics,  or  science.  She 
never  talked  or  looked  in  this  eager  way  with 
him.  He  owned  that  the  fault  was  his,  that  he 

had  neither  desired  nor  invited  such  intercourse 

» 

with  her ;  but  he  felt  angry  and  offended. 

About  this  time  there  was  a  convention  of 
scientific  men  in  New  York,  before  which  Fraser 
was  to  make  an  address.  He  had  been  invited 
to  give  some  account  of  his  great  schemes  and 
proposed  inventions  before  them,  and,  as  tickets 
had  been  issued  for  the  public,  he  had  men 
tioned  to  Rhoda  casually  that  she  "  had  better 

go." 

This  form  of  words  she  took  to  mean  that  he 
wished  her,  for  the  sake  of  appearances,  to  be 
present  on  an  occasion  with  which  he  was  pub 
licly  identified.  Her  interest  in  his  work  had 
not  abated  in  the  least,  though  she  no  longer 
talked  to  him  of  it.  So,  when  the  evening 
came,  she  dressed  for  the  occasion  with  feelings 
of  animated  interest  and  even  curiosity.  She 
had  known  nothing  of  the  progress  of  the  work 
of  late,  and  was  too  proud  to  ask  questions. 

Fraser  drove  along  with  her,  almost  in  silence. 
The  few  remarks  which  they  exchanged  on  the 
way  were  merely  casual,  and  referred  neither 


162  DEAD   SELVES. 

to  themselves  nor  to  the  occasion  ahead  of 
them. 

The  convention  was  held  in  one  of  the  large 
theatres.  He  had  secured  for  her  a  small  loge, 
to  which  he  took  her  direct. 

"  Of  course  your  friends  will  join  you  here," 
he  said.  ' '  I  will  return  for  you  as  soon  as  I 
can." 

But  Rhoda  felt  in  no  mood  to  be  sought  out 
and  claimed  by  friends.  As  the  door  closed 
behind  Fraser,  she  drew  a  chair  toward  the 
back  of  the  small  box  and  seated  herself  quite 
out  of  sight  of  the  audience,  a  look  of  deep 
sadness  on  her  face.  She  knew  that  the  man 
who  occupied  toward  her  the  position  of  hus 
band  was  the  greatest  man  she  had  ever  known. 
She  took  an  intense  and  conscious  pride  in  him. 
She  felt  acutely  nervous  for  fear  he  might  not 
do  himself  justice, — might  not  reveal  to  the 
world  the  inherent  personal  power  that  he  had, 
without  effort,  with  indifference  and  coldness 
even,  revealed  to  her. 

When  she  saw  him  at  last,  standing  there, 
grave  and  composed,  before  that  great  audience, 
her  heart  shook,  but  it  was  with  exultation,  and 
not  fear.  There  were  present  wise  and  learned 
men  from  all  quarters  of  the  world,  and  the  fact 


DEAD   SELVES.  163 

that  Fraser  was  to  speak  had  collected  many 
people  from  his  own  society,  who  had  come  to 
see  their  representative  in  this  learned  assem 
blage  recognized  and  crowned.  Rhoda  was 
consciou^  of  the  smaller  personal  element,  as 
well  as  the  greater  impersonal  one,  in  this  large 
crowd.  But  after  one  glance  at  Fraser  she  felt 
the  man's  inherent  force  so  dominant  and  sure 
that  there  was  no  room  in  her  heart  for  any 
thing  but  pride  and  triumph. 

He  began  to  speak.  How  familiar  was  the 
sound  of  that  strong,  incisive,  penetrating  voice  ! 
She  saw  that  he  was  completely  master  of  him 
self  and  of  his  subject,  and  her  anxiety  for  him 
vanished.  As  he  went  on,  unfolding  before  the 
wondering  attention  of  an  audience  startled  al 
most  into  bewilderment  at  his  boldness,  even  in 
this  day  of  marvels,  the  daring  aims  of  his  vast 
undertakings,  and  speaking  with  assurance  of 
their  magnificent  ends,  Rhoda  thrilled  through 
every  nerve  with  pride  in  him.  She  knew  that, 
to  many,  his  attempts  must  seem  extravagantly 
improbable,  but  he  spoke  with  a  calmness,  a 
security,  a  conviction,  which  carried  a  tre 
mendous  force,  and  he  had  had  such  suc 
cesses  in  the  past  as  argued  strongly  for  the 
future. 


164  DEAD   SELVES. 

She  scanned  the  faces  of  the  cold  men  of 
science  seated  with  him  on  the  stage,  and  saw 
that  respect  was  mingled  with  interest.  Once 
she  drew  aside  a  corner  of  her  curtain  and 
looked  out  at  the  audience.  There  the  same 
verdict  was  written  even  more  distinctly, — 
high  tribute  to  this  man. 

As  for  Rhoda,  her  soul  saluted  him.  He  was 
not  hers,  he  never  had  been,  and  he  never  could 
be,  but  she  felt  an  humble  sense  of  pleasure  and 
pride  that  she  was  permitted  to  bear  his  great 
name,  to  preside  at  his  table,  to  be  considered 
his  loved  and  honored  wife.  Upon  her  memory 
there  flashed  suddenly  the  remembrance  of  that 
rustic  scene  between  the  engineer  and  his  wife 
and  child,  and  how  beautiful  love  and  tender 
ness  had  seemed  to  her,  combined  with  physical 
strength  and  the  control  of  the  great  forces  of 
nature  and  the  might  of  machinery.  But  what 
was  that  man's  strength,  compared  to  Fraser's? 
What  a  weak  symbol  of  human  force  was  he, 
when  she  thought  of  the  gigantic  undertakings 
by  the  account  of  which  this  man  was  now  hold 
ing  his  audience  spellbound  ! 

She  looked  at  those  strong  hands,  and  thought 
how  the  very  elements  of  earth  and  air  were  sub 
ject  to  them, — how  he  proposed  to  use  the  wind 


DEAD   SELVES.  165 

for  his  instrument  and  the  ocean  for  his  tool, 
and  how  the  power  of  his  mind  enabled  even 
the  uncultivated  portion  of  his  present  audience 
to  comprehend,  in  part  at  least,  how  this  might 
be.  She  saw  how  they  thrilled  to  his  meanings 
and  answered  to  his  touch,  and  yet,  as  she  knew, 
not  one  of  them  in  fifty  had  ever  been  nearer  to 

him  than  they  were  to-night,  while  she ! 

This  man  and  she  sat  daily  at  the  same  board, 
slept  nightly  beneath  the  same  roof,  appeared 
always  in  the  world  side  by  side,  and  were  sup 
posed  to  be  in  the  closest  of  all  human  relations. 
This  was  the  appearance ;  but  how  different  the 
reality !  She  felt  that  no  one  in  all  that  vast 
assemblage  was  in  actuality  so  far  removed  from 
him  as  she. 

And  yet,  in  a  sense,  she  was  nearest  to  him  ! 
No  one  else  could  feel  so  familiar  with  his  tones, 
his  gestures,  his  strong  figure,  his  individual, 
intellectual,  compelling  face ;  and  surely,  surely 
no  one  else  could  take  such  pride  in  him.  These 
were  wonders  that  he  proposed  to  do, — things 
which  but  a  little  further  back  in  the  world's  his 
tory  would  have  been  called  miracles ;  and  yet 
men  dared  not  call  him  a  visionary,  after  the 
wonders  he  had  already  achieved.  He  had  won 
for  himself  the  right  to  be  heard,  and  the  oldest 


1 66  DEAD   SELVES. 

and  wisest  of  those  learned  men  sat  at  his  feet 
to  listen. 

When  at  last  his  grand  scheme  was  laid  before 
them,  so  forcibly,  so  ably,  so  simply,  that  even 
the  uncultivated  and  unscientific  among  his 
hearers  could  not  fail  of  some  insight  into  it,  he 
gathered  together  the  few  sheets  of  manuscript 
which  he  had  used  for  reference,  and  sat  down. 

There  was  a  wild  outburst  of  applause.  It 
reverberated  from  dome  to  flooring  of  the  great 
building,  with  a  vim  that  made  the  pulses  of 
every  heart  throb  quicker.  When  Rhoda  re 
membered  that  this  was  the  tribute  of  thousands 
of  hearts  to  one  man,  she  wondered  how  he 
could  bear  it.  It  must  be  almost  too  great,  too 
wonderful,  too  keenly  precious  ! 

And  in  all  that  storm  of  praise,  that  tumult 
of  tribute,  what  was  she?  Behind  her  curtain 
she  clapped  her  gloved  hands  together  again 
and  again ;  but  the  noise  they  made  in  that 
cyclone  of  sound  was  so  small  that  it  scarcely 
reached  her  own  ears,  and  how  entirely  lost  it 
must  have  been  in  the  plaudits  of  that  multi 
tude  !  Just  so,  she  felt,  her  pride,  her  admira 
tion,  her  worship  for  his  genius  were  lost,  in 
the  salutation  to  him  which  reverberated  through 
the  world. 


DEAD   SELVES.  167 

Again  she  thought,  how  can  he  bear  it  ?  As 
if  in  answer  to  her  question,  he  rose  and  bowed 
gravely,  once  only,  showing  a  face  as  calm  in  its 
own  strong  self-possession  as  she  had  ever  seen 
it.  And  yet  she,  who  knew  that  face  so  well, 
saw  that  the  eyes  shone  under  their  deep  brows, 
and  the  nostrils  of  the  fine  nose  quivered.  These 
were  signs  of  emotion  that  she  had  never  seen 
in  him  before.  It  had  taken  the  plaudits  of 
thousands  to  produce  them.  What  was  one 
poor  weak  woman  to  such  a  man  ? 

Her  heart  was  bowed  before  him  in  a  feeling 
that  was  almost  worship ;  she  could  have  wished 
to  be  his  servant,  his  slave. 

Nevertheless,  when  he  came  to  the  little  box 
for  her,  as  the  audience  was  dispersing,  she  was 
wordless.  She  did  not  give  him  so  much  as 
the  tribute  of  a  look,  but,  drawing  her  cloak 
about  her,  walked  silent  at  his  side  until  they 
reached  their  carriage  and  were  seated  in  it. 

For  some  moments  longer  the  silence  con 
tinued,  but  they  were  very  near  to  each  other, 
and  there  were  strange  magnetic  currents  in  the 
air.  The  pavement  was  smooth  and  the  well- 
adjusted  wheels  almost  noiseless :  the  carriage 
itself  seemed  nearly  motionless. 

To  Rhoda  there  came  the  sound  of  short, 


1 68  DEAD   SELVES. 

excited  breaths,  to  Fraser  the  sense  of  trembling. 
She  told  herself  that  his  long  effort  in  speaking 
had  disturbed  his  breathing.  He  told  himself 
that  the  strain  of  the  long  scientific  lecture  had 
exhausted  her  and  caused  her  to  tremble  so. 

If  they  could  have  read  each  other's  hearts, 
they  might  have  been  surprised  to  discover  that 
that  speech  had  been  forgotten  by  them  both. 
In  Rhoda's  mind  its  influence  remained,  stir 
ring  her  to  an  overwhelming  feeling  for  this 
man ;  but  it  had  been  a  mere  emanation  from 
him,  and  here  was  he,  himself,  beside  her.  To 
Fraser,  the  exhilaration  of  that  popular  triumph 
existed  now  only  in  his  mind  as  a  biting  con 
trast  to  the  coldness  of  this  woman,  supposed 
to  be  one  with  himself.  He  was  an  eminent 
scientist,  accustomed  to  holding  the  forces  of 
earth  and  air  in  leash ;  but  there  were  currents 
at  work  now  over  which  he  had  no  control,  be 
fore  which  he  felt  helpless  as  a  child. 

She  was  leaning  back  in  the  corner  of  the 
carriage,  her  face  entirely  screened  from  the 
light  outside.  He  could  only  feel  that  she  was 
trembling. 

"Rhoda,"  he  whispered. 

His  own  voice  startled  him.  He  had  not  in 
tended  to  speak. 


DEAD   SELVES.  169 

"Yes?"  she  answered  him,  her  low  tones 
conscious  and  sentient. 

"Are  you  cold?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  she  whispered  again. 

He  could  feel  that  her  trembling  increased. 

Bencflng,  he  drew  her  cloak  about  her  closer. 
Crossing  the  folds  in  front,  he  tucked  them  in 
on  either  side.  He  was  conscious  that  his  arms 
lingered  in  doing  it. 

"Is  that  better?"  he  said,  holding  them  in 
place. 

"Yes,"  she  whispered. 

He  could  feel  her  eyes  upon  him  in  the  silent 
gloom. 

"Rhoda,"  he  said,  again. 

"Yes?"  came  the  answer,  fainter  than  before, 
whispered,  sibilant. 

He  did  not  speak,  but  his  face  moved  toward 
her  slowly,  until  their  eyes  gleamed  upon  each 
other,  and  their  quick  breaths  met. 

"Darling,"  he  said,  with  sudden  fervor. 

The  figure  beneath  his  hands  was  trembling 
still.  His  pressure  tightened.  His  face  was 
coming  nearer.  It  was  so  close  now  that  she 
could  not  see  it,  only  feel  his  breath  upon  her 
face. 

At  that  instant  the  carriage  stopped. 


1 70  DEAD   SELVES. 

Remembrance  came  back  with  a  rush.  He 
drew  away  from  her  with  a  swift  movement,  and 
when  the  door  was  held  open  and  he  handed  her 
out  he  spoke  with  a  voice  that  had  regained  its 
usual  composure. 

"I  promised  to  go  to  the  club,"  he  said. 
"  I  shall  be  detained  some  time." 

Rhoda  could  not  answer.  A  servant  was 
holding  open  the  door,  giving  admission  to  the 
house,  and  she  passed  up  the  steps  and  into  the 
hall.  She  had  turned  very  pale,  from  the  vio 
lent  reaction  of  this  scene. 

She  went  at  once  to  her  room,  and,  without 
ringing  for  her  maid,  threw  off  her  long  fur- 
lined  cloak  and  let  it  fall  upon  the  floor,  took 
off  her  bonnet  and  gloves,  unfastened  her  gown, 
let  it  drop  also  into  a  rich  heap,  and  was  just 
shaking  out  her  thick  hair,  in  her  impetuous 
need  of  physical  relief,  when  there  came  a 
knock  at  the  door. 

Throwing  on  a  dressing-gown,  she  went  and 
opened  it.  It  proved  to  be  one  of  the  two 
nurses  employed  for  the  child,  and  she  came  to 
say  that  her  charge  had  had  an  unusually  severe 
recurrence  of  the  attacks  of  heart-failure  to 
which  it  was  subject,  and  that  the  doctor  had 
been  sent  for  and  was  now  with  it. 


DEAD   SELVES.  171 

Poor  Rhoda !  She  had  forgotten !  This 
evening's  excitement,  the  pride  she  had  felt  in 
Eraser's  public  appearance  and  effect  upon  that 
great  audience,  and,  more  yet,  what  she  had 
afterwards  felt,  when,  alone  in  the  carriage 
with  him,  she  had  been  dominated  by  that  same 
powerful  personality, — these  things  had  been  so 
strong  in  their  effect  upon  her  that  they  had 
caused  her,  for  the  first  time,  to  forget  the  awful 
past. 

It  was  back  upon  her  now,  however,  with  a 
surge  of  pain,  and  she  must  face  it.  Not  wait 
ing  to  twist  up  her  long  hair,  she  made  a  mute 
sign  to  the  nurse  to  lead  the  way,  and,  walking 
silently  after  her  down  the  hall,  mounted  to  the 
floor  above. 


XVI 

FRASER,  meanwhile,  had  flung  himself 
into  the  carriage  and  shut  to  the  door. 
The  club  to  which  he  had  ordered  himself  to  be 
driven  was  some  distance  off,  and  he  knew  that 
he  had  the  present  to  himself  without  fear  of 
interruption. 

The  seat  into  which  he  had  hurriedly  sunk  was 
still  warm  from  Rhoda's  body.  A  perfume, 
made  from  orris,  which  she  habitually  used,  left 
behind  it  a  delicate  pungent  fragrance,  as  of 
incense.  As  he  closed  his  eyes  and  drew  in 
this  sweet  odor,  she  seemed  to  be  near  him 
still,  in  the  darkness,  trembling  with  an  emo 
tion  which  he  dared  to  believe  that  he  compre 
hended. 

The  evening,  with  its  intoxicating  triumph, 
had  left  his  brain  excited  and  elated,  but  with 
it  all  there  was  a  keen  sense  of  lack.  He  felt 
that  he  had  won  a  signal  victory  in  a  great  cause. 
He  knew  that  the  world  would  acknowledge 
him  henceforth  as  one  of  the  heroes  of  the  great 
army  of  science,  which  was  doing  battle  for 
172 


DEAD   SELVES.  173 

the  advancement  of  humanity.  It  was  the  ful 
filment  of  one  of  the  most  ardent  dreams  of  his 
life ;  but  he  felt  like  a  man  who,  after  long 
abstinence,  has  had  his  hunger  fully  appeased, 
but  is  b»ing  consumed  by  thirst.  Those  vocifer 
ous  plaudits,  ringing  through  that  great  theatre, 
seemed  to  make  a  din  and  clangor  in  his  ears 
that  half  angered  him,  because  he  missed  the 
sound  of  tribute  from  the  one  source  which  all 
his  nature  longed  for  now.  He  felt  that,  as  long 
as  this  note  was  missing,  triumph  was  a  thing 
without  meaning  to  him. 

What  this  evening's  success  had  given  him  he 
had  once  held  to  be  his  heart's  desire,  but  the 
great  unfulfilled  longing  within  him  showed  him 
now  that  this  was  not  so.  He  had  been  avoid 
ing,  evading,  eluding  himself  for  a  long  time, 
but  this  evening  he  dared  to  think  bold 
thoughts  and  dream  bold  dreams,  more  enthrall 
ing  to  his  senses  than  his  public  triumph  had 
been.  That  sudden  stopping  of  the  carriage 
had  interrupted  what  he  now  passionately  wished 
to  have  back.  He  reproached  himself  for  not 
having  followed  Rhoda.  He  knew  that  she  had 
been  strangely  moved.  If  he  had  gone  after 
her  he  might  have  forced  her  to  own  the  mean 
ing  of  that  emotion ;  but  the  stopping  of  the 


174  DEAD   SELVES. 

carriage,  the  appearance  of  the  open  house,  the 
very  manner  and  tone  of  the  footman,  had 
brought  back  habit  and  conventionality  so 
strongly  that  he  had  yielded  to  their  influence. 
This  desire  to  return  to  Rhoda  so  possessed  him 
that  when  he  reached  the  club  he  ordered  the 
carriage  to  wait  for  him,  determined  to  take 
advantage  of  the  first  possible  opportunity  to 
excuse  himself  and  return  home. 

His  entrance  was  hailed  with  enthusiasm  by 
his  friends,  and  he  was  compelled  to  listen  to 
their  excited  congratulations.  But  through 
everything  he  felt  that  undercurrent  in  his  con 
sciousness  which  was  drawing  him  to  Rhoda. 
He  knew  that  he  had  betrayed  himself  to  her. 
It  was  what  he  had  not  intended  to  do,  but 
now  that  it  was  done  he  had  a  feeling  of  ex 
ultation  in  it.  The  supreme  excitements  of 
this  evening  had  shaken  him  out  of  his  custom 
ary  self-poise.  He  could  not  fail  to  be  aware, 
in  a  sense,  of  his  own  greatness, — that  there 
must  be  great  qualities  in  the  man  to  whom 
an  assemblage  representative  of  the  brain  of 
the  world  had  paid  homage.  This  very  thing 
made  him  impatient  of  being  thwarted  in  the 
point  toward  which  the  whole  current  of  his 
will  and  force  and  longing  was  now  set.  He 


DEAD   SELVES.  175 

realized  to-night  that  he  had  achieved  his 
utmost  present  desire,  in  his  work,  and  felt  a 
consciousness  of  inherent  power  that  made  him 
mad  to  win  what  had  now  become  still  dearer 
to  him  fchan  success  in  his  career. 

He  drank  several  glasses  of  wine,  but  they 
seemed  to  stimulate  in  him  nothing  but  this 
overmastering  desire  to  see  Rhoda  again.  In 
return  for  the  enthusiastic  congratulations  of  his 
friends,  he  made  a  short  speech,  for  which  he 
was  enthusiastically  cheered.  He  was  not  sur 
prised  at  this,  for  he  felt  that  he  was  talking  brill 
iantly,  and  it  was  no  effort  to  him  to  do  so.  This 
sense  of  power  within  was  tremendously  stimu 
lating,  but  it  made  him  chafe  at  the  limitation  of 
that  power.  There  was  a  new  and  unexplored 
world  which  he  thirsted  to  see  and  conquer. 

When  he  had  responded  to  his  friends'  toast 
to  him,  he  excused  himself,  and  left  the  party. 
Every  nerve  in  him  was  tingling  with  the  con 
sciousness  of  triumphs  recently  passed,  and  the 
eager  anticipation  of  a  still  sweeter  triumph 
which  he  saw  just  before  him.  His  face  was 
instinct  with  this  emotion  as  he  passed  out  of 
the  club,  and,  running  down  the  steps,  threw 
himself  into  his  carriage  and  gave  the  brief 
word,  "  Home." 


176  DEAD    SELVES. 

Never  had  that  word  expressed  to  him  what 
it  did  now.  Never  had  his  heart  so  throbbed 
to  the  thought  of  it.  It  was  his  home,  and  it 
was  Rhoda's  home  !  It  had  long  been  theirs 
apart,  but  it  might  be  theirs  together  now. 
For,  if  he  had  made  a  self-betrayal,  so  had  she  ! 
Her  body  had  trembled  under  his  touch ;  her 
voice  had  faltered,  when  it  had  tried  to  answer 
him.  It  had  been  here,  in  this  very  spot, 
where  the  scent  of  her  garments  still  lingered. 
He  threw  himself  upon  his  knees  and  buried 
his  face  in  the  corner  of  the  carriage  that  had 
held  her,  pressing  his  lips  upon  the  leather, 
and  drawing  into  his  nostrils  eager  draughts  of 
that  incense-smell.  Rhoda  !  Rhoda  !  Rhoda ! 
was  the  cry  of  his  heart.  Only  an  hour  ago 
she  had  been  with  him,  the  subtle  currents  of 
their  beings  set  toward  each  other !  In  two 
minutes  more  he  would  be  with  her  again. 

He  sprang  from  the  carriage,  banged  the 
door,  and  ran  up  the  steps  with  the  eagerness 
of  a  boy.  He  let  himself  into  the  house  with 
his  latch-key,  threw  off  his  coat  and  hat  in  the 
hall,  and  went  straight  to  Rhoda's  room,  his 
rapid  movements  and  the  fever  in  his  mind 
joining  to  make  his  heart  beat  thick  and  fast. 

There   was   no   answer   to   his   knock.     He 


DEAD   SELVES.  177 

knocked  again  and  stood  waiting.  He  could 
hear  those  rapid  heart-beats.  Again  there  was 
no  answer,  but  he  felt  very  bold,  and  he  turned 
the  knob  and  entered. 

There  on  the  floor  were  Rhoda's  furs,  and 

* 

her  discarded  dress,  but  Rhoda  was  not  there. 
He  crossed  quickly  to  her  dressing-room,  call 
ing  her  name  softly,  but  with  a  cadence  in  his 
voice  which  she  had  never  heard.  The  dress 
ing-room  also  was  empty. 

A  suspicion  came  to  him,  a  thought  that 
seemed  to  soil  his  mind  as  one  drop  of  ink  will 
defile  a  bowl  of  clear  spring  water.  It  was  like 
the  blight  of  frost  on  flowers,  like  discord  in 
terrupting  music,  like  a  foul  odor  blending  with 
holy  incense. 

He  tried  to  shake  it  off,  to  ignore  and  forget 
it.  A  memory  seemed  to  knock  at  the  door  of 
his  heart  and  insist  upon  admission,  but  he 
tried  with  all  his  might  to  bar  it  out. 

Turning  hastily,  he  went  into  the  hall,  and 
looked  into  all  the  rooms  which  opened  on  it, 
to  see  if  she  could  have  wandered  into  any  one 
of  them.  Each  and  all  were  dark  and  silent. 
He  looked  over  the  banisters  into  the  hall 
below.  The  lights  had  already  been  put  out, 
and  the  sleepy  servants  had  retired. 


1 78  DEAD   SELVES. 

That  thought,  that  insistent  idea,  forced  itself 
upon  him  with  yet  greater  urgency,  but  still  the 
voice  within  cried,  "  Rhoda  !  Rhoda  !"  and  he 
must  seek  her  even  there.  An  element  of  bit 
terness  had  mingled  with  the  sweet,  but  the 
magnet  that  drew  him,  in  spite  of  every  adverse 
influence,  was  Rhoda,  and  he  could  not  choose 
but  go. 

Down  the  long  hall  he  hurried,  treading  cau 
tiously,  for  fear  of  being  heard,  and  up  the  out 
side  staircase,  which  led  to  the  veranda  above. 

A  few  steps  along  this  took  him  to  a  window, 
where  he  stood  still  in  the  shadow  and  looked 
in.  The  sash  had  been  raised,  as  if  for  air,  and 
the  blind  was  partly  drawn  up.  There  were 
movements  and  suppressed  noises  within,  as  of 
people  passing  to  and  fro  and  speaking  in  low 
tones, — a  man's  voice,  and  the  voices  of  several 
women. 

He  saw,  with  only  half-consciousness,  the 
doctor  and  two  nurses  consulting  together  and 
preparing  medicines,  at  one  side  of  the  room ; 
but,  apart  from  them,  directly  opposite  him, 
with  her  face  turned  full  toward  him,  was 
Rhoda. 

Her  dark  hair  hung  forward  around  her  face, 
as  she  knelt  beside  the  small  wheel-bed,  her 


DEAD   SELVES.  179 

elbows  sunk  in  its  covers,  her  face  hidden  in 
her  hands. 

At  sight  of  her  there,  all  the  blood  in  his 
body  seemed  to  whirl  about  and  flow  the  other 
way.  A  fierce  bitterness  got  hold  of  him  and 
impeked  him  to  look  long,  deliberately,  scru- 
tinizingly,  at  the  small  shapeless  form  beside 
which  Rhoda  was  kneeling. 

At  this  sight,  his  body  gave  a  wrench  that 
seemed  to  shake  him  from  head  to  foot.  Hor 
ror,  repulsion,  disgust,  possessed  him  in  every 
sense.  That  pallid,  imbecile  face  had  a  like 
ness  in  it  to  the  being  who  had  been  its  father. 
As  he  looked  and  continued  to  look,  his  horror 
deepened,  for  there,  on  the  dark  silk  coverlet, 
lay  a  limp  and  pallid  little  hand,  which  had  yet 
a  look  of  Rhoda's. 

The  combination  was  too  much  for  him.  The 
love  but  now  so  warm  within  his  heart  changed 
into  loathing,  and  he  turned  and  fled,  as  if  from 
something  out  of  hell. 

Reaching  his  own  room,  he  gave  himself  up 
to  a  passion  of  fury  and  revulsion.  Fool,  de 
graded,  weak,  insufferable  fool,  that  he  had 
been,  to  forget  that, — to  let  any  spell  of  beauty 
and  charm  of  mind  and  body  eclipse  the  sick 
ening  horror  of  that  fact  about  this  woman  ! 


i8o  DEAD   SELVES. 

And  he  had  sunk  to  the  level  of  loving  her,  of 
wishing  for  her  love  in  return  !  He  had  even 
fallen  so  low  as  to  let  her  know  it,  this  evening, 
not  two  hours  ago, — to  call  her  by  a  fond  name  ! 
The  very  memory  of  her  beauty  added  to  his 
fury.  The  thought  of  her  grace,  her  sweetness, 
her  power  to  charm,  was  like  an  insult  to  him. 

He  walked  the  floor  of  his  room,  nursing  his 
anger  and  inward  self-revolt  until  he  had  worked 
himself  into  an  impotent  fury  which  had  nothing 
to  vent  itself  upon  and  was  therefore  the  more 
furious.  By  degrees  the  outward  signs  of  pas 
sion  and  agitation  subsided,  but  the  forces  of 
rage  within  condensed  and  grew  more  keen, 
more  deadly,  more  determined,  every  instant. 
He  could  not  let  the  night  pass,  he  told  himself, 
without  undoing  that  brief  but  all-potent  im 
pression  that  he  had  made, — without  erasing 
from  her  mind  the  idea  that  he  had  forgotten 
the  past  and  had  come  to  love  her.  It  was  tor 
ment  to  him  to  recall  that  moment's  weakness, 
folly,  madness.  He  repudiated  it  now  with  all 
his  soul. 

He  left  his  room  and  went  and  knocked  at 
Rhoda's  door.  He  did  not  know  how  much 
time  had  passed,  and  he  thought  it  possible  that 
she  might  have  returned.  He  knocked  twice 


DEAD   SELVES.  181 

and  got  no  answer.  Evidently  she  was  still  at 
her  post  up-stairs.  This  conviction  brought 
with  it  no  thought  of  tenderness, — only  a  deep 
ening  of  his  fierce  resentment  against  her  and 
against  himself. 

He  opened  the  door  and  found  the  room 
empty.  The  gas  was  low,  so  that  he  could  dis 
tinguish  objects  but  imperfectly,  as  he  entered 
and  began  to  pace  the  floor.  But  all  about  him 
there  were  reminders  of  Rhoda  that  galled  him. 
When  he  went  near  the  dressing-table  he  found 
himself  in  the  atmosphere  of  that  peculiar  in 
cense-odor.  He  turned  away  abruptly,  and, 
crossing  the  room,  threw  himself  down  on  a 
lounge,  his  back  to  the  light  and  his  eyes  fixed 
on  the  door  by  which  Rhoda  would  enter. 


XVII 

AND  Rhoda  ?  The  reaction  from  that  short 
scene  in  the  carriage,  which  had  stirred 
the  long  lifeless  wings  of  hope  within  her  and 
had  made  them  seem  about  to  soar  upward  and 
bear  her  into  the  heaven  of  heavens,  was  cruel, 
sudden,  terrible. 

Having  heard  that  the  child  was  ill,  she  had 
gone  to  it  immediately,  obedient  to  the  new 
and  all-powerful  voice  of  duty  in  her  soul ;  but 
the  glory  of  that  vision  of  light  had  followed 
her  even  across  the  awful  threshold  of  that  room, 
and  as  she  knelt  beside  that  bed  her  heart  and 
spirit  had  been  sustained  by  it. 

In  spite  of  all  he  loved  her !  That  was  the 
wonderful,  glorious,  beautiful  truth,  which  noth 
ing  could  undo.  She  knelt  in  this  desolate  place, 
resolved  to  do  her  duty  to  the  bitter  end,  but  at 
last  the  bitterness  of  her  hard  lot  was  sweetened 
and  justified  by  the  love  of  him  whom  she 
adored  with  every  pulse  and  emotion  of  body, 
soul,  and  spirit.  God  was  good,  and  she  was 
happy,  in  spite  of  all ! 
182 


DEAD   SELVES.  183 

The  doctor  pronounced  the  patient  better  and 
the  immediate  danger  past.  Strange  to  say, 
Rhoda  felt  herself  relieved.  It  seemed  cruel  to 
be  glad  that  this  blighted  life  should  be  pro 
longed.  In  her  heart,  she  did  not  wish  it.  She 
earnestly  desired  death  for  this  child,  to  whom 
the  life  which  she  had  given  it  was  so  worse 
than  useless ;  but  to-night  she  shrank  from  the 
idea  of  death  as  she  had  not  done  before.  All 
her  being  was  informed  with  a  new  vitality,  and 
she  wanted  to  live  and  see  life  and  to  banish  the 
thought  of  death. 

She  turned  from  that  sad  room  and  walked 
down-stairs  in  a  dream  of  joy.  It  seemed  to 
her  that  bliss  from  out  of  heaven  had  floated 
down  to  her  and  that  an  ineffable  atmosphere 
of  glory  wrapped  her  round. 

At  the  threshold  of  her  door  she  saw  the 
scattered  leaves  of  a  gardenia  lying  on  the  floor. 
She  trembled  with  joy  at  the  sight.  He  had 
been  to  seek  her,  then.  She  had  felt  certain 
that  it  would  be  so  ! 

Full  of  an  unspeakable  happiness,  fired  with 
an  exquisite  hope,  she  entered  the  room  softly, 
and  had  closed  the  door  behind  her,  when,  in 
the  dim  half-light,  she  saw  the  tall,  strong  figure 
that  she  loved,  lying  at  full  length  on  her  sofa. 


1 84  DEAD   SELVES. 

She  stood  still  a  moment,  her  heart  throbbing 
with  delight.  Then,  as  he  did  not  move,  she 
came  cautiously  forward  and  sank  into  a  deep 
chair  near  the  lounge.  He  had  been  waiting 
for  her  long,  she  fancied,  and  had  fallen  asleep. 
It  was  not  strange,  she  told  herself.  The  night 
was  almost  over,  and  the  demands  which  its 
hours  had  made  upon  his  nervous  forces  must 
have  been  gigantic.  Naturally,  he  was  exhausted 
by  such  emotional  strain  as  the  events  of  this 
night  had  caused,  and  she  had  kept  him  waiting 
long ! 

In  the  dim  light,  which  was  behind  him,  she 
could  not  see  his  eyes,  but  she  fastened  her  own 
with  eagerness  upon  him.  She  herself  was  facing 
the  light,  and  although  it  was  turned  low  it 
showed  her  eyes — large,  fervid,  conscious — 
fixed  upon  him,  and  Fraser  gazed  upon  her 
steadily. 

For  he  was  not  asleep.     He  was  as  awake  and 
conscious  as  herself.     She  had  no  suspicion  of 
it,  though,  and  as  she  sat  and  watched  beside 
him,  her  voice,  sweet  with  passion,  breathed  in 
a  soft  whisper  the  word  : 
"Dear- 
He  heard  as  well  as  saw,  but  he  made  no 
sound  and  gave  no  sign.     His  heart  was  hot 


DEAD   SELVES.  185 

with  fury.  The  sight  that  he  had  lately  seen 
possessed  him  with  a  sense  of  loathing.  The 
very  beauty  of  this  woman  infuriated  him.  The 
sound  of  her  voice  maddened  him.  The  per 
fume  of  that  incense-odor  set  him  beside  him 
self  with  rage.  Why  should  she  be  so  much 
more  beautiful,  so  far  sweeter,  so  infinitely  more 
full  of  charm,  than  other  women  ?  He  hated 
her  for  it. 

And  Rhoda,  seeing  him  there,  unconscious, 
as  she  still  believed,  but  with  a  heart  that  would 
return  to  sentience  only  to  realize  afresh  a  mighty 
love  for  her,  leaned  gently  nearer  to  him,  her 
whole  being  in  an  attitude  of  adoration  for  the 
genius,  the  character,  the  soul,  the  mind,  the 
body,  of  this  man  whom  now,  at  least,  she  felt 
to  be  her  own  ! 

His  eyes  were  still  upon  her,  but  they  were 
hard  and  cruel,  though  she  knew  it  not.  His 
nerves  were  strung  to  their  highest  point  of  en 
durance,  but  outwardly  he  was  profoundly  still. 

Again  that  soft  voice  spoke  from  out  the  per 
fumed  silence : 

"Dearest "  she  said,  and  held  her  heart 

to  wait  for  his  reply. 

Still  silence.  A  part  of  him,  a  mighty  ele 
ment  of  that  complicated  thing,  himself,  seemed 


1 86  DEAD   SELVES. 

to  leap  from  out  the  bondage  of  his  body  to 
answer  her ;  but  he  had  another  self,  which  in 
this  hour  was  uppermost,  and  that  self  shrank, 
revolted.  He  lay  there,  enjoying  her  loveli 
ness  and  her  nearness  to  him,  as  men  have  been 
fascinated  by  the  beauty  of  some  dangerous 
wild  creature  which  they  intend  presently  to 
kill. 

She  bent  her  head  nearer,  until  their  faces 
were  so  close  that,  in  spite  of  the  semi-dark 
ness,  in  spite  of  the  heavy  shadows  from  his 
strong  dark  brows,  she  looked  full  into  his  open 
eyes. 

Instantly  she  shrank  backward. 

"  What  is  it  ?"  she  cried,  in  a  hoarse  whisper. 
"  I  thought  you  loved  me.  You  made  me  think 
it — there,  in  the  carriage,  by  the  word  you  said. 
If  I  am  mistaken " 

"Mistaken  !"  he  said,  getting  quickly  to  his 
feet,  and  speaking  in  a  harsh,  discordant  voice, 
which  yet  was  deadly  calm  and  cold.  "  Mis 
taken!"  he  repeated.  "You  thought  I  loved 
you !  You  thought  I  had  forgotten  !  I  have 
not  forgotten.  I  remember.  I  married  you  for 
money ;  not  a  noble  thing  to  do,  but  you  had 
done  the  same  before  me.  A  man  sinks  below 
his  ideal  of  himself  when  he  marries  for  money, 


DEAD   SELVES.  187 

and  I  debased  myself  when  I  did  it.  But  love, 
— not  that !  I  have  not  yet  reached  the  level 
of  bringing  a  question  of  love  into  a  bargain 
such  as  ours." 

Every  word  fell  distinct  and  merciless  upon 
her  ears.  He  saw  her  shrink  backward  with  a 
convulsive  movement,  and  a  hoarse  sound  es 
caped  her.  Then  she  made  an  effort  to  get  to 
her  feet,  but  her  figure  tottered,  and  she  fell 
back  into  a  deep  chair  and  remained  there  pro 
foundly  still. 

Crossing  the  room  with  rapid  strides,  he  stood 
a  moment  before  the  fireplace,  with  his  back 
turned.  He  listened  for  some  word  or  move 
ment  from  behind  him,  but,  hearing  none,  he 
turned  and  looked.  Something  in  her  attitude 
struck  him  as  being  unnatural.  He  went  to 
ward  her,  calling  her  name. 

There  was  no  answer.  A  great  fear  seized 
him.  Hastily  turning  on  the  gas,  he  went 
near  and  looked  at  her.  Her  eyes  were  closed. 
Was  she  unconscious,  he  asked  himself,  or 
worse  ? 

He  fell  on  his  knees  before  her,  and  took  up 
one  lovely  hand.  It  was  limp  and  cold  and 
nerveless.  Chafing  it  between  his  own,  he 
covered  it  with  kisses,  calling  her  name,  in  pas- 


1 88  DEAD   SELVES. 

sionate  entreaty  that  she  would  look  at  him, 
speak  to  him. 

But  she  neither  spoke  nor  stirred.  Her  body 
was  relaxed  and  limp,  from  head  to  foot ;  her 
face  was  white  as  marble.  And  where,  where 
was  the  spirit  of  her, — this  exquisite  unparal 
leled  woman,  the  treasure  of  whose  love  he  had 
so  spurned  ? 

Lifting  her  in  his  arms,  he  carried  her — oh, 
but  the  burden  was  sweet ! — across  the  room 
and  laid  her  on  her  own  bed.  Then,  without 
loosening  his  arms  from  about  her  unconscious 
body,  he  fell  on  his  knees,  and,  holding  her 
close  against  his  heart,  talked  to  her,  in  fervid 
whispers  that  told  an  agony  of  fear,  a  storm  of 
passionate  love : 

"Rhoda,  Rhoda,  my  child,  my  love,  my 
darling,  look  at  me,  forgive  me  !  I  love  you, 
Rhoda.  O  God,  have  mercy  !  I  love  her,  and 
I  have  killed  her!" 

Great  tearless  sobs  were  shaking  him  from 
head  to  foot.  He  laid  his  ear  against  her  quiet 
body,  and  listened  for  the  beating  of  her  heart. 
Faintly,  faintly  he  could  hear  it,  and  could  feel 
a  slight,  weak  throbbing  through  the  soft  gar 
ment  that  covered  her  fair  flesh.  But  the  placid 
face  was  mute  beneath  his  kisses ;  the  sweet 


DEAD   SELVES.  189 

body  was  passive  and  unknowing.  As  he  lifted 
her  hand  it  fell  heavily  from  his  grasp.  He 
forced  himself  to  be  still  a  moment,  until  he 
could  listen  for  her  breathing.  It  came  so 
scantily  that  he  could  not  hear  it,  but  he  felt  a 
little  Breath  of  warmth  from  between  her  parted 
lips.  He  longed  to  drink  into  his  own  thirsty 
being  this  little  sign  of  life,  but  he  dared  not 
put  his  face  too  close,  lest  he  should  stop  that 
weak,  scant  breath  that  seemed  the  one  slight 
thing  that  separated  life  from  death. 

Suddenly  he  realized  that  he  must  have  help, 
that  he  was  throwing  away  moments  which 
might  mean  salvation  to  Rhoda  and  to  him. 
The  power  of  action  returned  to  him  with  this 
thought.  Loosing  her  from  his  arms,  he  strug 
gled  to  his  feet.  Running  to  the  bell,  he  rang 
it  violently,  but  before  it  could  be  answered  he 
had  rushed  from  the  room,  along  the  dark  back 
passage,  and  up  the  outer  stairway,  and  into  the 
room  where  Rhoda' s  child  lay. 

For  the  first  time  he  felt  an  utter  absence  of 
any  sense  of  shock  in  this  presence.  He  roused 
one  of  the  nurses,  who  was  asleep  on  a  small 
cot,  and  told  her  to  come  immediately  to  Mrs. 
Fraser,  who  had  fainted. 

Before  the  woman  could  draw  on  her  gown 


i9o  DEAD   SELVES. 

and  slippers,  Fraser  had  turned  away  and  was 
bounding  down  the  staircase  and  running  along 
the  hall  that  led  him  back  to  Rhoda's  room. 

There  he  found  her  maid,  who  had  come  in 
answer  to  his  ring  and,  with  a  terrified  face, 
was  bending  over  her  mistress  and  trying  in 
vain  to  rouse  her. 

In  another  moment  the  nurse  entered  and 
began  to  use  restoratives.  She  despatched  the 
maid  to  call  the  second  nurse  and  to  take  her 
place,  and  then  she  set  herself  to  the  task  of 
reassuring  the  terrified  man. 

Though  her  measures  were  so  prompt  and 
energetic,  she  calmed  his  worst  fears,  by  tell 
ing  him  that  she  believed  it  to  be  only  a  faint 
ing-fit,  from  which  Mrs.  Fraser  would  recover. 
She  advised  him,  however,  to  send  at  once  for 
the  doctor. 

Seeing  that  he  could  do  nothing  here,  and 
feeling  inactivity  at  this  crisis  to  be  impossible, 
Fraser,  still  in  his  evening  clothes  and  thin 
shoes,  threw  on  his  top-coat  and  hat,  and, 
having  telephoned  for  a  cab  to  meet  him  at  the 
doctor's  office,  rushed  out  into  the  streets  and 
over  the  damp  cold  pavements,  his  heart  a  hot 
flame  in  his  breast,  and  his  feet,  in  spite  of  all 
their  haste,  like  leaden  clogs  upon  him.  He 


DEAD   SELVES.  191 

reached  the  doctor's  house,  and,  having  roused 
him  with  imperious  haste,  the  two  men  had  just 
started  to  walk  the  distance,  when  they  met  the 
cab  approaching. 

Hurrying  the  doctor  into  it,  Fraser  closed 
the  d#or  behind  him,  and  went  off  himself  in 
the  opposite  direction.  Going  to  the  nearest 
telegraph-office,  he  sent  a  message  to  his  mother, 
begging  her  to  come  to  him  on  the  morning 
train,  as  she  was  needed.  He  knew  that  the 
telegram  would  be  alarming,  but  he  knew  also 
that  his  mother  was  cast  in  the  old  Roman 
mould  and  would  be  both  willing  and  able  to 
come  to  his  succor  now. 

As  he  came  out  of  the  office  he  saw  that  day 
was  breaking.  The  streets  were  lonely  and 
very  cold,  but  the  loneliness  and  coldness  in 
his  own  heart  were  too  heavy  upon  him  to 
allow  of  his  feeling  the  merely  external. 

He  strode  through  the  silent  city,  fighting  a 
hand-to-hand  fight  with  fear.  If  Rhoda  died, 
if  she  left  him  with  those  words  of  his  unsaid, 
that  brutal  cruelty  unretracted,  he  felt  that  life 
was  over  for  him.  Then  he  thought,  with 
stifling  horror,  that  even  in  death  his  conscious 
ness  would  not  be  rid  of  the  thought  of  what 
he  had  done  to  her.  It  must  remain  as  long 


x92  DEAD   SELVES. 

as  his  soul  had  existence,  an  immortality  of 
agony  and  remorse ! 

When  he  reached  his  own  door,  this  fear  had 
made  such  a  coward  of  him  that  he  could  with 
difficulty  summon  courage  to  enter  the  house. 
He  stood  trembling  on  the  door-step  and  send 
ing  up  mute  prayers  for  help,  for  respite,  for 
the  staying  of  this  blow. 

When  at  last,  by  the  use  of  all  his  will,  he 
let  himself  into  the  hall,  the  sight  of  his  white 
face  in  the  mirror  startled  him.  He  had  not 
courage  yet  to  go  up-stairs,  and  turned  into  the 
library. 

As  he  entered  this  room,  the  image  of  Rhoda 
rose  suddenly  before  him  as  she  had  come  to 
him  here,  the  evening  of  her  writing  the  letter 
to  his  mother.  Oh  to  have  that  moment  back  ! 
He  would  have  given  every  dream  of  his  life, 
of  achievement  in  science  and  success  in  his 
career,  every  belief  that  through  his  instrumen 
tality  the  greatest  machinery  of  the  world  was 
to  be  changed,  all  the  dreams  that  his  mind 
had  ever  conceived,  to  have  that  moment  back, 
— to  be  with  Rhoda  alone  in  this  place, — to 
have  the  opportunity  to  say  to  her  the  things 
left  unsaid  then. 

Again  that  tantalizing  vision  seemed  to  stand 


DEAD   SELVES.  193 

before  him.  The  scent  of  warm  Russia  leather 
from  the  books  suggested  that  odor  of  orris, 
violets,  and  incense  which  always  hung  about 
her.  Would  it  ever  be  wafted  toward  him 
again  from  that  sweet  presence?  If  not, — if 
not, — how  was  he  to  bear  it  ? 

Suddenly  he  remembered  what  these  mo 
ments  might  be  signifying  in  that  room  up 
stairs.  What  a  coward  he  was  to  have  done 
this  thing  to  Rhoda,  and  then  to  turn  and  fly ! 
He  must  go  and  see  the  result  of  his  brutal 
work. 

Trembling  at  every  step,  he  crossed  the  hall, 
mounted  the  stairs,  and  walked  slowly  toward 
the  door  of  Rhoda's  room.  He  could  hear 
movements  within,  and  the  sound  of  voices 
speaking  in  low  tones.  As  he  stood  there,  try 
ing  to  summon  up  his  courage  to  knock,  the 
door  opened,  and  the  doctor  came  out. 

Seeing  Fraser  there,  with  his  white,  bewil 
dered  face,  he  took  him  kindly  by  the  arm, 
and,  drawing  him  along  the  hall  to  the  door  of 
his  own  room,  he  led  him  to  a  seat. 

"Don't  look  so  frightened,  man,"  he  said. 
"It's  not  as  bad  as  all  this." 

" How  is  she?"  he  asked,  huskily. 

"She  has  recovered  from  the  faint,  but  her 


i94  DEAD   SELVES. 

fever  is  high,  and  I  fear  she  is  in  for  an  attack 
which  may  be  a  serious  thing.  Her  brain  is 
much  confused;  she  recognizes  no  one,  and 
what  she  says  is  incoherent.  I  am  afraid  she's 
going  to  have  brainj  fever  ;  but  with  her  youth 
and  splendid  constitution  she  will  have  all  the 
chances  in  her  favor." 

Fraser's  face  showed  a  certain  relief.  An 
attack  of  brain  fever  was  a  solemn  thing,  but 
after  the  fear  that  had  held  him  for  the  past 
hour  it  was  a  respite. 

"Doctor,"  he  said,  "you  will  do  your  best, 
I  know  that,  but  have  in  all  the  aid  that  medi 
cal  science  can  supply.  Work  with  all  your 
might  for  this  precious  life,  and,  if  you  believe 
in  God,  help  me  to  pray  now." 

The  doctor  looked  at  him  in  some  surprise. 

"I  am  not  a  praying  man,"  he  said.  "I 
never  supposed  you  to  be  one  either. ' ' 

"  I  am  not,"  said  Fraser,  "  or  at  least  I  have 
not  been  in  these  recent  days.  I  have  had  my 
eyes  fixed  for  so  long  on  the  vast  possibilities 
of  science,  and  I  have  seen  it  do  such  wonders, 
that  a  natural  materialism  has  been  the  result. 
But  to-night  I  see  the  limitations  of  science, 
hard  and  fast  as  they  are.  I  beg  you  to  use 
your  best  skill  and  to  employ  the  skill  of 


DEAD  SELVES.  195 

others;  but  my  only  real  hope  now  is  to  ask 
help  of  God.  I  have  a  good  and  religious 
mother,  and  in  this  hour  her  faith  appears  to 
me  a  more  real  and  powerful  thing  than  any 
force  of  science.  I  have  sent  for  my  mother 
to  cdhie.  She  will  be  here  to-morrow,  and 
will  help,  by  her  work,  as  well  as  by  her 
prayers,  to  save  my  wife." 

It  was  the  first  time  that  he  had  ever  spoken 
of  Rhoda  so,  even  before  strangers.  He  spoke 
of  her  generally  as  "  Mrs.  Eraser,"  or,  in  more 
intimate  cases,  as  "Rhoda;"  but  now  it 
answered  the  very  need  of  his  heart  to  call  her 
wife. 


XVIII 

WHEN  Fraser  met  the  train  at  the  station, 
and  saw  the  little  frail  figure  in  black 
get  out  of  it,  his  heart  swelled  with  a  sudden 
rush  of  tenderness.  He  had  known  that  his 
mother's  coming  was  as  certain  as  the  arrival  of 
the  train  itself,  and  now  that  she  was  here  he 
knew  that  her  will  to  try  and  her  stanchness  to 
succeed  in  giving  him  the  help  which  he  needed 
were  both  as  sure  as  a  rock.  They  had  drifted 
away  from  each  other  since  his  marriage,  and  a 
restraint,  felt  by  both  but  spoken  of  by  neither, 
had  come  between  them.  But  now  they  had  no 
sooner  looked  into  each  other's  eyes  than  they 
knew  that  it  was  gone, — that  their  full  hearts 
throbbed  together  again  with  the  sympathy  so 
dear  of  old. 

He  did  not  speak  a  word  until  they  were 
seated  in  the  carriage  with  the  door  closed  upon 
the  world  outside.  Then,  by  one  instinct, 
their  eyes  met  and  their  hands  were  clasped. 

"  Rhoda  is  very  ill,"  he  said,  his  voice  thick 
with  emotion. 
196 


DEAD   SELVES.  197 

The  strong  old  face  before  him  paled  a  little, 
but  the  strong  voice  spoke  with  calmness. 

"  Hope  always,"  it  said  ;  "  God  will  do  the 
best.  Life  and  death  are  not  much.  Eternity 
is  long,  and  love  is  as  long  as  eternity.  I  saw 
my  husband  die,  and  I  could  bear  it.  We  loved 
each  other,  and  we  trusted  God.  I  know  that 
he  is  waiting  for  me,  and  the  separation  is  not 
hard.  How  is  it  with  you  and  Rhoda?" 

He  hid  his  face  in  his  hands,  and,  with  his 
head  so  bowed,  a  groan  answered  her. 

"Mother,  mother,"  he  said,  "I  love,  I  wor 
ship,  I  adore  her,  but  she  does  not  know." 

A  smile  illuminated  the  aged  features  beside 
him,  and  she  answered  him  in  tones  that  had  in 
them  a  certain  triumph : 

"But  she  will  know.  God  may  take  her 
from  you,  but  He  will  tell  her  that,  and  mere 
bodily  separation  will  be  little,  when  that  is 
known." 

"  I  do  not  want  God  to  tell  her;  I  want  to 
tell  her  myself,  on  my  knees,  in  the  dust  before 
her,  for  all  that  I  have  done.  You  do  not 
know!" 

"I  know  little,  but  I  have  suspected  much. 
You  are  my  son,  and  I  love  you,  but  many  a 
time,  if  it  had  not  been  for  my  respect  for  that 


198  DEAD   SELVES. 

glorious  creature's  pride,  I  would  have  told  you 
what  it  was  that  I  suspected.  But  I  will  spare 
you  now.  Your  punishment  is  enough.  I  will 
pray  God,  with  all  my  heart,  to  give  you  the 
opportunity  for  amends. ' ' 

"  If  He  will,  all  my  life  shall  be  a  thanks 
giving,"  he  said. 

After  this  they  drove  on  in  silence.  The 
strong  old  woman,  who  did  not  often  permit 
her  kind  heart  to  be  over-lenient  to  the  erring, 
felt  herself  so  touched  by  the  anguish  on  her 
son's  face  that  the  tears  overflowed  her  eyes 
and  fell  upon  her  thin  and  wrinkled  hands. 

But  Fraser  did  not  see  them.  His  miserable 
eyes  were  fixed  on  vacancy,  and  his  thoughts 
had  strayed  back  over  the  memory  of  a  past 
which  tortured  him.  As  they  began  to  draw 
near  the  house,  his  nervous  anxiety  became  so 
intense  that  his  mother  had  to  use  her  utmost 
skill  to  soothe  and  comfort  him. 

"  Mother,"  he  said,  looking  straight  into  her 
eyes,  as  if  he  deliberately  gave  himself  up  to 
the  scrutiny  of  that  penetrating  gaze  of  hers, 
"I  wish  with  all  my  heart  that  you  knew  all ! 
If  I  could  bear  to  tell  you,  I  would,  and  the 
weight  might  be  less  intolerable ;  but  I  have 
been  blind  as  well  as  cruel.  I  thought  there 


DEAD   SELVES.  199 

was  a  quite  impassable  barrier  between  us.  I 
thought  that  the  past  quite  cut  us  off  from 
love." 

"The  past?    What  past?" 

"  Rhoda's  past,"  he  answered,  and  even  now 
thereVas  sternness  in  his  voice. 

The  old  lady  smiled, — a  smile  of  confident 
knowledge,  as  of  age  that  looked  with  leniency 
upon  the  ignorance  of  youth. 

"Rhoda's  past?"  she  said,  with  a  sweet  ex 
tenuating  smile.  "  That  was  not  Rhoda.  The 
poor  unawakened  being  who  lived  that  ignorant 
girl-life,  and  married  without  love  or  knowl 
edge  of  what  love  and  marriage  were, — who 
simply  went  forward  and  did  unthinkingly  what 
lay  in  her  path,  and  so  became  the  victim  of 
her  own  ignorance, — that  was  not  Rhoda,  in 
any  sense  except  the  one  in  which  the  grub  is 
the  butterfly.  That  was  the  chrysalis  from 
which  Rhoda  sprang,  bright  winged  creature 
that  she  is  !  All  of  us  have  our  past,  but  few 
have  such  a  terrible  past  as  hers,  poor  girl,  and 
few  have  risen  so  high  on  the  stepping-stones 
of  their  dead  selves." 

He  could  not  answer  her.  His  voice  failed 
him  when  he  tried.  He  felt  his  mother's  arms 
close  tight  about  him  and  draw  his  head  against 


200  DEAD   SELVES. 

her  own,  as  she  had  done  to  him  when  a  troubled 
little  boy ;  and,  as  he  had  not  done  since  those 
far-away  days,  he  put  his  arms  around  her  and 
sobbed  like  a  woman — or  like  a  man  who  is 
both  strong  and  tender,  and  whose  capacity  for 
feeling  is  but  rarely  roused. 


XIX 

RHODA'S  illness  proved  to  be  brain  fever, 
as  the  doctors  had  predicted.  They 
speculated  much  as  to  what  could  have  been 
its  cause.  Fraser  heard  them  wondering  and 
conjecturing,  but  in  his  wretched  heart  he  knew 
too  well.  If  Rhoda  died,  he  should  feel  him 
self  her  murderer. 

And  so  began,  for  him  and  for  his  mother, 
those  days  of  poignant  anxiety  when  the  course 
of  a  fever  is  followed  from  its  beginning  to  its 
climax.  Whether  or  not  there  would  be  other 
days  of  waiting  from  crisis  to  convalescence, 
he  dared  not  think ! 

The  sick-room  was  watched  and  tended  with 
all  the  care  and  skill  that  love  and  money 
could  secure.  Doctors  came  and  went  contin 
ually.  Nurses  moved  about  on  noiseless  feet, 
and  the  strong  old  lady,  showing  no  symptom 
either  of  fatigue  of  body  or  weariness  of  mind, 
was  always  at  hand  to  assist  in  every  emer 
gency.  Fraser  alone  seemed  useless. 

Once  or  twice  he  had  entered  that  darkened 


202  DEAD   SELVES. 

room,  but  the  sights  and  sounds  of  it  were 
more  than  he  could  bear.  There,  on  the  bed, 
lay  Rhoda,  helpless,  her  soul  gone  out  of  her, 
perhaps  to  return  no  more.  At  times  she  tossed 
and  muttered  and  cried  out,  as  if  in  wild  ap 
peal  to  be  spared,  saved,  released  from  some 
terrible  thing  which  threatened  her.  This  was 
intolerable  to  Fraser.  If  he  could  have  spoken 
to  her,  if  his  penitence,  his  appeal,  his  love, 
could  have  reached  her,  he  could  have  borne 
any  pain  for  that  reward ;  but  when  he  knew 
that  Rhoda' s  gentle  heart  was  cut  off  from  any 
approach  from  even  the  voice  most  dear  to  her, 
— that  Rhoda's  receptive  brain  was  closed  to 
any  comprehension  of  the  words  of  love  or  of 
reason, — he  felt  that  he  must  go  away  from 
where  that  dear  and  lovely  being  lay,  uncon 
scious,  unapproachable,  unable  to  feel  love  or 
to  know  that  she  was  loved. 

In  those  days  his  mother  was  his  one  com 
fort.  She  did  not  talk  to  him  much,  but  she 
would  join  him  in  his  own  apartments,  and  walk 
the  floor  at  his  side  almost  by  the  hour,  her 
frail  arm  around  his  great  powerful  body,  and 
her  slight  figure  supported  by  his  strong  arm. 
The  best  comfort  she  was  able  to  give  him  was 
the  strong  conviction  which  she  felt  that  Rhoda 


DEAD  SELVES.  203 

would  recover.  He  had  a  habit  of  faith  in  her 
faith,  which  made  this  belief  of  hers  infinitely 
precious  to  him  now.  As  often  as  she  repeated 
it  to  him,  with  her  calm  assurance  of  confidence, 
new  life  seemed  to  flow  into  him,  new  faith  in 
God  *nd  in  himself. 

For  since  that  scene  with  Rhoda  he  had  suf 
fered  a  self-abasement  from  which  it  seemed  to 
him  that  he  could  never  raise  his  head.  All 
his  powers  of  scorn  and  loathing  were  now 
centred  on  himself.  By  contrast  with  himself, 
the  hated  characteristics  of  the  man  whom 
Rhoda  had  first  married  became  innocent  and 
endurable.  He  felt  himself  to  be  a  far  more 
despicable  being  than  the  poor  harmless  creature 
for  whom  he  now  had  little  else  than  pity. 
Even  that  being  seemed  less  unworthy  of  the 
love  of  Rhoda  than  he,  who  had  been  wilfully 
and  brutally  coarse  and  cruel  to  her. 

But  now  that  he  realized  and  repented,  now 
that  he  loathed  himself  as  he  had  never  loathed 
another,  now  that  the  passion  of  his  heart  was 
to  undo  what  he  had  done,  to  expiate,  to  re 
trieve,  to  atone,  it  was  a  thing  almost  intolera 
ble  to  have  it  all  forced  back  upon  him,  into 
the  wretched  heart  that  was  almost  bursting 
with  its  strain. 


204  DEAD   SELVES. 

Torrents  of  strong  impassioned  words  surged 
up  within  him  which  he  ached  to  say  to  Rhoda. 
His  self-abasement  was  complete,  but  he  wanted 
it  to  be  in  Rhoda' s  presence,  at  Rhoda' s  feet. 

Once,  with  the  awful  pressure  of  this  strain 
upon  him,  he  got  up  suddenly,  impelled  by  a 
force  not  to  be  resisted,  and  went  to  her. 

There  she  lay,  deaf  to  his  words,  careless  of 
his  agony,  cold  to  his  remorse,  all  her  grand 
body  still  and  placid  from  head  to  feet,  her 
sweet  kind  heart,  which  might  have  given  him 
the  drop  of  pity  for  which  his  soul  was  parched, 
throbbing  to  no  consciousness,  but  only  telling 
out  the  beats  of  a  life  which  was  insensible,  un 
knowing,  and  unloving.  He  stood  and  looked 
down  upon  her,  his  own  heart  overflowing  with 
a  love  which  once  she  would  have  prized,  a 
worship  which  would  once  have  been  her  pride. 

Her  dark  hair  was  parted,  and  plaited  in  two 
long  braids.  He  could  see  the  rise  and  fall  of 
her  bosom,  under  its  white  gown,  and  he  longed 
to  lay  his  face  upon  it  and  sob  out  the  anguish 
of  his  heart.  But,  if  he  did,  she  would  not 
know  or  care  !  He  looked  at  the  white  hand 
that  lay,  palm  upward,  at  her  side,  and  saw  the 
gleam  of  his  own  ring  in  the  shadowed  scoop 
made  by  its  relaxed  fingers.  It  seemed  to  him 


DEAD   SELVES.  205 

now  an  abomination  that  he  had  committed  to 
have  put  that  ring  on,  with  an  oath  which  in 
his  heart  he  had  intended  to  break.  Who  was 
he,  what  was  he,  to  scorn  any  act  of  hers? 
She,  as  he  well  knew,  had  grown  out  of  that 
old  s«lf  and  left  it  far  behind,  while  he,  but  the 
other  day,  had  put  the  crowning  act  upon  a 
course  of  cruelty  and  brutality  which  would  not 
let  him  call  that  old  self  a  dead  one. 

He  stood  and  looked  down  at  her,  as  a  re 
pentant  murderer,  who  knew  that  he  was  to  go 
free  for  his  crime,  might  have  looked  upon  his 
victim.  It  would  have  been  a  solace  to  him  to 
feel  that  he  was  to  pay  the  penalty.  This  load 
of  unexpiated  guilt  was  too  heavy. 

Suddenly  Rhoda  opened  her  eyes  and  looked 
full  at  him.  His  heart  leapt,  and  then  fell, 
smitten  by  that  look  as  by  a  blow.  She  gazed 
into  his  face  as  she  might  have  looked  on  a  blank 
wall,  her  eyes  expressing  a  blankness  as  great. 
There  was  no  approach  to  that  dead  conscious 
ness,  no  avenue  between  that  isolated  soul  and 
his. 

"  Rhoda,"  he  whispered,  in  a  voice  of  agony. 

But  Rhoda  did  not  hear  him,  though  he  bent 
very  low  and  all  his  hungry  heart  was  in  that 
passionate  word.  She  only  continued  to  gaze 


206  DEAD  SELVES. 

at  him  with  that  blank  stare  which  seemed  to 
put  the  width  of  the  universe  between  her  soul 
and  his.  Repentance  could  not  avail  here. 
Expiation  and  atonement  had  no  place.  Death 
itself  could  hardly  be  so  hopeless,  for  if  the 
spirit  lived  at  all  it  would  be  conscious  and  he 
might  still  hope  to  reach  it,  but  here,  in  the 
presence  of  this  awful  nullity,  he  felt  the  clutch 
of  absolute  despair. 

Wordless  and  hopeless,  he  turned  and  left 
the  room. 


XX 

T5OSE  days  of  alternating  hopes  and  fears 
dragged  on.  Fraser  never  went  to  Brock- 
ett,  and  scarcely  left  his  own  rooms,  except  for 
an  hour  or  so  every  afternoon,  when  his  mother 
missed  him  and  imagined  he  had  gone  out  for 
a  little  air  and  exercise,  at  which  she  rejoiced, 
for  this  vigil  was  telling  on  him  sadly. 

One  afternoon  the  old  lady  took  her  way 
along  that  back  passage  and  up  that  outer  stair 
way,  to  satisfy  herself  that  Rhoda's  child,  in  its 
mother's  unconsciousness,  was  being  properly 
cared  for.  As  she  approached  the  room  she 
saw  that  the  door  stood  open,  and,  as  her  slip 
pered  feet  made  no  noise,  she  was  about  to  an 
nounce  herself  to  the  nurse  whom  she  expected 
to  find  on  duty,  when  a  sight  met  her  eyes 
which  made  her  pause. 

Seated  with  his  face  toward  her,  and  his  gaze 
fixed  on  the  wheel-bed,  which  he  continually 
pushed  to  and  fro,  was  Duncan. 

For  several  moments  she  watched  him,  keep 
ing  up  that  strong,  regular  motion,  and  looking 

207 


208  DEAD   SELVES. 

straight  down  at  the  child  with  a  gaze  of  kind 
ness  and  pity.  She  saw  him  draw  the  bed 
a  little  closer  and  look  intently  at  one  spot. 
Then,  with  a  movement  of  passionate  fervor, 
he  took  up  the  little  hand  that  looked  like 
Rhoda's  and  kissed  it  many  times.  He  laid  his 
forehead,  his  cheeks,  his  eyes,  against  it,  and 
when  he  put  it  gently  down  it  was  wet  with  his 
tears. 

This  was  Rhoda's  child,  and  he  had  hated  it ! 
He  had  thought  it  vile  and  repulsive  and  de 
serving  of  his  scorn,  but,  to  his  present  vision, 
he  now  deserved  that  feeling  so  far  more  him 
self  that  he  felt  almost  unworthy  to  touch  this 
poor,  afflicted,  innocent  being,  who  was  Rhoda's 
child,  and  had,  if  only  in  its  little  useless  hand, 
a  look  of  Rhoda. 

Mrs.  Fraser  turned  away.  She  felt  that  this 
was  a  thing  upon  which  even  his  mother  could 
not  intrude.  Her  eyes  were  full  as  she  descended 
the  stairs  and  went  back  to  Rhoda's  room,  and 
her  heart  swelled  with  a  passionate  prayer  to 
God  for  these  two  beings,  so  dear  to  her  and 
now  so  evidently  and  intensely  dear  to  each 
other. 

Every  afternoon  now  the  mother  kept  a  fur 
tive  watch  upon  the  movements  of  her  son,  and 


DEAD   SELVES.  209 

she  found  that  he  invariably  sent  the  nurse  to 
walk  and  remained  there,  as  Rhoda  had  been 
used  to  do,  for  the  period  of  her  absence.  He 
had  even  learned  the  use  of  the  music-box  in 
the  child's  behalf,  and  would  sit  and  turn  the 
little  "handle  round  and  round,  grinding  out  the 
monotonous  iteration  of  three  popular  airs, 
thinking  the  while  of  Rhoda's  exquisite  music, 
for  which  he  had  never  once  spoken  a  word  of 
appreciation  ! 

One  day — it  was  about  the  sixth  of  Rhoda's 
illness — Eraser  came  to  the  door  of  the  sick 
room  and  motioned  to  his  mother  to  come  out. 
She  saw  from  his  manner  that  he  was  stirred  by 
something  far  out  of  the  ordinary. 

"The  child  is  dying,— Rhoda's  child,"  he 
said.  "  The  doctor  says  this  is  the  end.  Come 
with  me,  mother.  Come  and  show  me  how  to 
do  my  best  to  take  Rhoda's  place  to  it." 

The  old  lady,  without  speaking,  slipped  her 
hand  in  his,  and  so  they  went  together  to  that 
sad  place,  where  doctor  and  nurses  watched  in 
silence  too. 

There  was  no  expression  of  anxiety  on  any 
face.  Perhaps  there  was  even  an  effort  on  the 
part  of  each  to  keep  quiescent  an  expression  of 
relief  and  satisfaction. 

14 


2io  DEAD   SELVES. 

Eraser,  on  his  entrance,  walked  straight  to  the 
bedside  and  sat  down,  taking  up  the  little  hand 
which  he  had  learned  to  love  and  looking  down 
upon  it  tenderly.  The  old  lady,  going  to  the 
other  side  of  the  bed,  sank  upon  her  knees. 
Doctor  and  nurses  were  the  width  of  the  room 
away  from  her,  and  so  her  low  voice  was  audible 
only  to  her  son,  as  she  said  these  words  : 

"  Heavenly  Father,  receive  unto  Thyself  the 
life  of  this  little  child  who  has  suffered  much  but 
has  not  sinned,  and  grant  to  us,  who  have  sinned 
much,  that  through  the  earnest  suffering  of  re 
pentance  we  may  one  day  stand  before  Thee 
blameless  as  this  child.  We  have  had  much 
given  to  us,  and  of  us  much  shall  be  required. 
To  this  soul  Thou  hast  given  little,  and  little 
wilt  Thou  require.  It  returns  to  Thee  as  it 
came,  to  await  Thy  will  for  it  in  another  world, 
where  we  believe  that  the  failures  and  mistakes 
of  this  shall  be  repaired.  To  Thy  understand 
ing  and  Thy  love  do  we  commend  it.  Amen." 

Duncan,  in  a  low,  soft  voice,  repeated  the 
Amen  after  her,  and  as  he  did  so  he  felt  a  faint 
clutch  from  the  little  hand  in  his.  A  spasm 
passed  over  the  whole  small  body,  and  Rhoda's 
child  was  dead. 

He  motioned  to  doctor  and  nurses  to  come, 


DEAD   SELVES.  211 

and,  taking  his  mother's  hand  in  his,  he  led  her 
from  the  room. 

"  Thank  God  that  pain  is  spared  to  Rhoda !" 
the  old  lady  said,  as  she  followed  him  into  his 
room.  "  She  has  had  enough." 

"Too  much ! — too  much !"  hesaid.  "Mother, 
you  are  a  good  Christian.  You  believe  that  re 
pentance  and  amendment  can  wipe  out  the 
worst  of  crimes,  do  you  not?  I  can  believe 
that  God  may  forgive  me,  perhaps  even  that 
man  might ;  but  that  I  can  ever  forgive  myself 
seems  quite  impossible,  and  that  is  an  implacable 
enmity  that  seems  more  than  I  can  bear.  It  is 
well  with  the  poor  child  yonder.  The  peace 
of  the  grave  must  be  sweet ;  but  peace  is  not 
for  me.  There  is  a  crime  unexpiated  on  my 
heart  which  forbids  me  to  think  of  peace." 

"  What  is  this  thing,  my  son?  Can  you  tell 
your  mother  ?' ' 

"No:  of  this  I  can  speak  only  to  my  wife. 
If  Rhoda  dies " 

He  broke  off.  Those  two  sweet  words, ' '  wife' ' 
and  "Rhoda,"  were  so  profoundly  moving  to 
him  that  he  could  say  no  more. 

' '  She  will  not  die.  She  will  live, ' '  his  mother 
said,  and,  for  the  hundredth  time,  the  faith  of 
her  strong  conviction  comforted  him. 


212  DEAD   SELVES. 

Two  days  later  there  was  a  quiet  funeral  from 
the  house  in  which  Rhoda  lay  so  ill.  The  car 
riage  which  followed  the  hearse  was  occupied 
by  Fraser  and  his  mother.  All  through  the 
services  and  the  interment  these  two  took  their 
places  exactly  as  if  it  had  been  their  own  child 
and  grandchild.  They  were  both  in  deep 
mourning.  Eraser's  face  looked  haggard,  sad, 
and  wan.  Lack  of  sleep  and  acute  anxiety  had 
told  upon  him.  To  those  who  did  not  know, 
he  probably  looked  like  a  father  burying  his 
beloved  child ;  and,  in  truth,  as  he  turned  away 
from  that  little  grave  his  heart  was  heavy  with 
a  new  sense  of  loneliness.  It  had  been  some 
thing  to  do  for  Rhoda,  and  to  do  it  had  com 
forted  his  heart ;  but  now,  in  all  the  world, 
there  was  no  service  left  to  be  done  for  her  dear 
sake. 


XXI 

r  I  ^HE  crisis  was  passed,  and  Rhoda  was  pro- 

-L      nounced  to  be  convalescent,  though  there 

lingered  a  danger  of  relapse,  which  necessitated 

an  almost  greater  care  and  caution  than  before. 

Never  had  his  mother  so  realised  what  her 
son's  anxiety  had  been  as  when  she  saw  the 
abandonment  of  relief  and  thanksgiving  into 
which  the  hope  of  her  recovery  threw  him. 

For  some  days  the  patient  was  allowed  to  see 
only  the  doctors  and  nurses.  It  was  thought 
unsafe  even  to  allow  her  to  know  that  Mrs. 
Fraser  was  in  the  house.  The  long  fever  had 
exhausted  her  completely,  and  she  slept  much, 
but  even  when  awake  her  lassitude  was  so  ex 
treme  that  she  seemed  hardly  able  to  think  or 
to  feel. 

One  day  she  seemed  so  much  better  that  the 
doctors  said  that  either  her  husband  or  his 
mother  might  go  in  to  see  her;  and  Fraser, 
with  a  strong  conviction  that  the  sight  of  him 
would  do  Rhoda  harm,  insisted  that  his  mother 
should  be  the  one  to  go.  The  doctors  looked 

213 


214  DEAD   SELVES. 

upon  this  as  the  man's  natural  feeling  that  a 
woman  would  be  more  tactful  and  acceptable  in 
such  a  case,  and  so  the  little  old  lady  went. 

Rhoda  greeted  her  with  a  wan  smile.  She 
was  too  exhausted  to  talk  much,  but  she  called 
her  "Mother,"  in  a  tender  tone,  and  kept  her 
hand  in  her  own,  which  was  thin  and  wasted. 

"  Have  I  been  very  ill,  mother  ?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  darling.  We've  been  quite  anxious 
about  you ;  but  you  are  getting  well  fast  now. ' ' 

"  They  tell  me  that  I  have  had  fever, — that 
I  have  imagined  things,"  she  went  on,  after 
a  pause,  during  which  the  older  woman  had 
sat  by  the  bedside,  quietly  stroking  her  hand. 
"  Did  you  ever  come  to  me  once,  when  I  was 
very  miserable,  and  take  me  away  on  a  great 
boat,  where  there  were  people  and  beautiful 
children  above,  and  down  below  hundreds  of 
poor  sheep  and  cattle,  trampling  each  other  to 
death,  and  being  pushed  toward  the  great  open- 
mouthed  red  furnaces  which  heated  the  boilers  ? 
Was  this  true  ?' ' 

"No,  dearest,  no.  That  was  all  a  delu 
sion  of  your  fever.  Don't  think  about  it  now. 
You  have  been  nowhere  but  here  in  your  own 
home." 

"  How  strange  !     It  seemed  so  real  to  me," 


DEAD   SELVES.  215 

she  said,  and  then  fell  silent.  Presently  she 
spoke  again. 

"  Were  there  two  children — lovely  little  boys 
— that  played  about  here  in  my  room,  and  ran 
often  to  kiss  me  ?  Or  was  this  also  a  dream  ?' ' 

"¥es,  my  child.  You  have  been  ill  a  long 
time,  you  see,  and  it  was  an  illness  that  causes 
all  such  strange  dreams." 

' '  But  how  can  I  ever  separate  the  true  from 
the  false  ?  How  can  I  tell  when  the  delusions 
began  ?  Help  me,  mother  darling.  My  mind 
is  so  weak  and  confused." 

Mrs.  Fraser  dared  not  let  her  go  on  longer. 
She  saw  that  Rhoda  was  anxious  to  talk  and  to 
straighten  out  the  tangles  of  her  disordered 
brain,  but  by  strong  and  gentle  urgency  she 
persuaded  her  to  be  quiet  and  to  conform  her 
self  to  the  doctors'  orders,  so  that  she  might 
get  well. 

"You  want  me  to  get  well?"  said  Rhoda, 
wistfully.  "You  would  care  if  I  died?" 

The  strong  old  lady  almost  lost  her  self-con 
trol  at  this,  but,  summoning  her  usual  tone  of 
courage,  she  answered  in  such  a  way  as  to  divert 
the  talk  into  a  channel  which  she  felt  would  be 
less  trying  to  the  poor  pale  patient. 

Rhoda' s  improvement  after  this  was  rapid. 


216  DEAD   SELVES. 

Fraser  had  not  seen  her  yet,  and  his  mother 
could  perceive  that  any  mention  of  him  seemed 
to  disturb  and  even  to  perplex  the  patient.  It 
was  impossible  to  tell  whether  she  desired  to 
see  him  or  not,  but  their  meeting  could  not 
now  be  postponed  much  longer. 

Once  Rhoda  had  asked  about  the  child.  Was 
it  cared  for?  Did  any  one  see  that  it  lacked 
for  nothing?  Was  the  doctor  satisfied  that 
the  nurses  were  faithful?  All  these  questions 
having  been  reassuringly  answered  by  the  doc 
tor,  she  had  not  referred  to  the  subject  again. 

Fraser,  meanwhile,  was  doing  his  best  to 
possess  his  soul  in  patience.  Now  that  that 
awful  dread  was  gone  and  it  became  certain 
that  Rhoda  would  live,  his  former  life  of  inac 
tivity  became  impossible  to  him.  He  rode  on 
horseback  for  hours  together,  sometimes  getting 
up  before  dawn  and  galloping  in  the  Park,  and 
coming  back  exhilarated  and  excited  as  nothing 
in  all  his  life  had  had  power  to  excite  him  until 
this  wonder  of  joy  and  triumph  came  upon  him, 
that  Rhoda  was  going  to  get  well. 

And  yet  with  the  joy  there  mingled  a  deep 
root  of  bitterness.  Rhoda  would  live,  but 
would  she  ever  be  his  ?  How  could  he  hope 
it  ?  How  was  he  ever  to  dare  to  meet  her  eyes, 


DEAD   SELVES.  217 

with  the  memory  of  the  shameful  words  that  he 
had  uttered,  between  them?  He  would  go  and 
listen  at  her  door,  sometimes,  and  hear  her 
sweet  voice  speaking  weakly  to  his  mother  or 
the  nurse.  In  the  night  he  would  lie  for  hours 
on  the  floor  of  her  own  pretty  dressing-room, 
close  to  her  door,  enthralled  by  the  sense  of 
her  nearness  to  him.  Her  room  was  kept  a 
bower  of  roses,  which  were  sent  to  her  every 
day,  with  the  message  that  he  would  come  to 
see  her  as  soon  as  she  should  be  pronounced 
well  enough.  The  decision  as  to  this  had  been 
left  to  his  mother,  and  she  had  her  own  reasons 
for  not  hastening  the  hour  of  a  visit  of  whose 
consequences  she  felt  a  certain  dread. 


XXII 

"  T^VUXCAN,"  said  Mrs.   Fraser,  going  to 

J — '  him  one  morning  in  the  library,  where 
he  was  trying  to  dispose  of  some  of  his  ac 
cumulated  mail  matter,  "  Rhoda  is  so  much 
stronger  and  better  now  that  I  have  told  her 
that  you  will  go  in  to  see  her  this  afternoon." 

A  sudden  apprehension  seized  him. 

"Does  she  want  it?  Is  she  willing?"  he 
said. 

"She  is  more  than  willing.  Indeed,  she  is 
unfeignedly  glad,  now  that  I  have  relieved  her 
mind  of  some  fears  that  had  tormented  her.  It 
is  very  difficult  for  her  to  disentangle  truth  from 
hallucination  in  her  mind,  but,  together,  I  think 
we  have  at  last  straightened  things  out.  She  has 
asked  me  many  questions,  and  would  not  be 
satisfied  without  the  most  explicit  answers." 

' '  What  questions  ?  Tell  me  the  whole  truth, ' ' 
he  said,  his  face  pale,  his  eyes  wide  and  anxious. 

"She  questioned  me  particularly  about  the 
meeting  at  which  you  made  your  address.  She 
218 


DEAD   SELVES.  219 

cannot  talk  much  at  a  time,  but  she  has  fre 
quently  recurred  to  that.  She  wanted  to  know 
if  it  was  true  that  she  went  with  you  to  that 
meeting,  and  that  you  had  a  great  public  ova 
tion.  She  even  called  her  maid  to  confirm  her 
recollection  as  to  the  dress  and  bonnet  that  she 
had  worn,  and  she  made  me  inquire  of  the  foot 
man  if  she  had  come  home  in  the  carriage  with 
you  and  you  had  then  left  her  and  gone  to  fill 
an  engagement  at  the  club.  All  this  was  veri 
fied,  and  her  memory  proved  perfectly  correct. 
She  remembers  also  the  visit  to  the  sick  child's 
room,  and  the  doctor  has  convinced  her  that 
it  was  that,  after  the  strain  of  the  evening's 
excitement,  from  which  she  was  already  ex 
hausted,  which  brought  on  the  fever  of  the 
brain.  She  knows  that  it  began  that  same 
night,  with  some  horrible  hallucinations  which 
have  been  torturing  her  ever  since.  She  has 
told  me  very  little  of  the  nature  of  these,  but 
she  spoke  with  horror  of  seeing  your  eyes  in 
the  darkness,  and  there  is  something  connected 
with  this  delusion  which  so  distresses  and  dis 
turbs  her  that  I  can  do  nothing,  when  she 
speaks  of  it,  but  beg  her  to  try  to  force  herself  to 
realize  that  there  is  no  truth  in  it,  and  so  throw 
it  off.  I  think  she  is  quite  convinced  of  it  at 


220  DEAD   SELVES. 

last,  and  she  seems  very  peaceful  and  happy 
now." 

She  ceased  to  speak,  for  her  companion 
was  listening  no  longer.  He  had  sprung  to 
his  feet,  like  a  man  from  whom  chains  had 
just  fallen,  and  was  pacing  up  and  down  the 
room,  with  strides  so  eager  and  so  rapid  that 
she  could  scarcely  catch  the  expression  of  his 
face. 

What  was  this  that  fate,  or  Providence,  or 
his  good  angel,  had  done  for  him  ?  It  was  too 
marvellous,  too  glorious  to  be  true !  Rhoda, 
recovered  from  the  illness  which  had  threat 
ened  to  take  her  from  him,  was  waiting  with 
anxiety  to  see  him,  having  proved  to  her  per 
fect  satisfaction  that  the  dear,  beautiful,  thrill 
ing  moments  of  that  scene  in  the  carriage  were 
a  reality,  and  believing  that  that  other  scene  of 
brutality  and  shame  which  had  come  after  it 
was  a  delusion  of  her  fevered  brain  ! 

Perhaps  he  was  a  coward,  perhaps  he  was 
false  to  himself  and  his  ideal,  but  he  could  not 
help  it  that  his  spirit  exulted. 

A  few  hours  later  he  was  called  to  Rhoda' s 
bedside.  The  nurse  had  been  sent  to  wait 
in  a  room  near  by,  in  case  she  should  be 
needed,  and  his  mother,  having  ushered  him 


DEAD   SELVES.  221 

in,  went  softly  out,  and  he  was  left  alone  with 
Rhoda. 

The  large  room,  so  characteristic  of  her  in  its 
delicate  luxuriousness,  was  beautified  and  per 
fumed  with  the  roses  that  he  had  sent.  On  a 
table*at  her  bedside  was  a  great  rich  mass  of 
them,  and  one  crimson  bloom  was  lying  on  the 
pillow  near  to  her  white  face. 

She  was  greatly  changed.  The  rounded 
cheeks  were  wasted.  The  dark  eyes  looked 
unnaturally  large  and  brilliant.  Even  the  fair, 
sweet  hands  looked  strange  and  thin,  and  he 
saw  in  every  sign  a  state  of  feebleness  and  ex 
treme  frailness  which  made  his  heart  one  pas 
sion  of  pity. 

Crossing  the  room  on  silent,  reverent  feet, 
he  came  and  knelt  beside  her  bed. 

"Darling,"  he  whispered,  in  a  voice  that 
shook. 

It  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  back  again  in 
that  supreme  and  perfect  moment  in  the  car 
riage,  and  that  he  had  only  taken  up  the  pre 
cious  scene  a  second  later,  at  the  very  point 
where  it  had  been  interrupted. 

With  Rhoda,  however,  all  was  different.  She 
stretched  out  one  pale  hand  to  him  and  smiled, 
— a  beautiful,  kindly  smile, — but  she  was  still 


222  DEAD   SELVES. 

exhausted  by  illness,  and  it  was  only  a  faint 
imagination  of  the  feelings  of  that  moment 
which  came  to  her  now. 

"Then  you  are  glad  I  didn't  die?"  she  said, 
faintly.  "  You  want  me  to  live  ?" 

It  seemed  to  her  almost  as  if  she  were  in  a 
conscious  dream ;  as  if  this  powerful,  impas 
sioned  man,  kneeling  at  her  side  in  an  ecstasy 
of  joy,  were  only  one  of  the  delusions  with 
which  she  had  held  converse  for  so  long.  This 
delusion  was  a  sweet  and  pleasant  one,  and  she 
faintly  pressed  the  hand  within  her  own,  as  if 
she  would  hold  on  to  it,  but  there  was  in  her 
heart  but  the  faintest  reflex  of  the  fire  in  his, 
and  she  could  but  dimly  comprehend  his  agita 
tion. 

"  Rhoda !  Darling  !"  he  said,  indulging  his 
thirsty  eyes  with  a  long  draught  of  her  loveli 
ness.  "  Do  you  remember  those  moments  in 
the  carriage  ?  It  was  the  first  time  that  I  had 
let  my  heart  speak  out,  but  I  had  had  a  long, 
hard  struggle, — first  to  keep  from  loving  you, 
and  then  to  keep  from  telling  you  that  love." 

He  paused  an  instant,  and  then  went  on  : 

"I  thought  that  you  were  going  to  leave  me, 

Rhoda.  What  I  suffered  then "  He  broke 

off,  for  he  had  no  words. 


DEAD   SELVES.  223 

She  raised  her  hand  and  laid  it  softly  on  his 
hair.  The  gesture  was  tender,  but  a  little  timid. 

"I  am  glad  you  cared,"  she  said.  "I  am 
glad  I  did  not  die,  if  you  wanted  me  to  live." 

A  sigh  that  was  almost  a  sob  came  up  in  his 
throai, — her  feeling  for  him  seemed  so  mild  a 
thing,  compared  to  the  passion  of  love  for  her 
which  was  consuming  him. 

"  Tf  I  wanted  you  to  live!  Oh,  Rhoda, 
Rhoda, ' '  he  cried,  kissing  the  pale  limp  hand, 
which  seemed  to  forget  to  return  his  pressure, 
"you  do  not  dream  what  my  love  is!  Only 
get  well  for  me,  my  darling,  and  I  will  show 
you." 

"I  am  glad  you  love  me.  It  seems  very 
strange,"  she  said. 

"  Strange,  my  Rhoda  ?  Strange  that  I  should 
love  you  !  Oh,  no  !  The  strange  thing  would 
be  if  I  could  fail  to  worship  and  adore  you. 
If  I  can  only  make  you  happy,  life  will  be  too 
glorious,  too  sweet." 

"You  do  make  me  happy,"  she  said.  "I 
am  very  happy." 

Her  placid  voice,  her  gentle  look,  her  calm, 
grave  manner,  were  maddening.  In  his  health 
ful  vigor,  he  felt  happiness  to  be  such  a  storm, 
such  a  whirlwind,  such  a  torrent,  that  he  could 


224  DEAD   SELVES. 

scarcely  believe  that  the  faint  utterance  of 
those  quiet  lips,  the  soft  pressure  of  that  frail 
hand,  the  mild  radiance  of  those  calm  eyes, 
meant  anything  more  than  placid  acceptance. 
Contrasted  with  his  own  feeling,  how  could  he 
call  that  love  ?  He  had  forgotten  to  make 
allowance  for  her  lassitude  of  body  and  of 
mind.  It  seemed  to  him  that  she  had  fanned 
into  a  flame  all  the  fire  in  his  heart,  only  to 
show  him  that  her  own  heart  was  cool  and 
passionless  and  had  in  it  no  response  to  his. 

Was  this  to  be  his  punishment?  Perhaps  it 
was. 

He  lifted  the  quiet  hand  he  had  been  hold 
ing,  and,  bending,  laid  his  eyes  against  it. 
There  was  an  instant's  storm  of  struggle,  and 
then  he  lowered  it  until  it  rested  beneath  his 
lips,  and,  looking  up  above  it,  he  met  her  eyes 
with  his. 

"  Are  you  happy,  Rhoda?"  he  said. 

She  bent  her  head  gently  on  the  pillow,  and 
said : 

"Yes." 

"And  satisfied?" 

Again  that  quiet  assent. 

Satisfied  !  Merciful  heaven  !  Was  this  all 
that  she  wanted, — all  that  the  word  happiness 


DEAD  SELVES.  225 

meant  to  her?  Could  she  dream  what  that 
word  meant  to  him,  or  enter  even  remotely  into 
his  conception  of  that  other  word,  love  ? 

He  looked  at  her,  hungering  and  thirsting. 

"Rhoda,"  he  said,  "do  you  love  me?" 

"Yes,  dearly,"  she  said. 

The  word  smote  him.  He  did  not  love  her 
dearly.  He  loved  her  !  When  that  was  said, 
how  any  qualifying  word  impoverished  it ! 

He  felt  a  sense  of  hopelessness  settling  upon 
him. 

His  blood  was  coursing  through  his  veins  like 
fire,  and  the  cool  affection  which  was  all  that 
she  had  for  him  was  intolerable.  It  was  a  relief 
when  his  mother  came  and  told  him  he  had 
better  go.  She,  more  than  doctor  or  nurse, 
knew  the  possible  agitation  of  this  interview. 

But  Rhoda  did  not  seem  agitated.  She  had 
been  pleased  to  have  him  there,  but  she  seemed 
also  willing  to  let  him  go.  As  he  rose  from  his 
keees,  he  stooped  over  and  kissed  her  on  the 
forehead.  She  smiled  up  at  him  contentedly,  as 
if  it  were  enough.  Somehow,  he  got  out  of 
the  room,  and,  gaining  his  own  apartments, 
shut  himself  in  alone. 

Alone  he  was,  utterly  and  terribly !  The 
loneliness  that  comes  after  companionship  is  the 


226  DEAD   SELVES. 

only  intolerable  loneliness,  and  he  knew  now 
how  close  and  sweet  had  been  the  companion 
ship  of  his  thoughts  of  Rhoda. 

After  long  waiting  he  had  seen  her,  and 
what  he  felt  was  a  deep,  desperate  disappoint 
ment.  It  was  impossible  that  she  could  love 
him,  when  their  first  moments  together  since 
their  love  was  owned  had  been  like  this  !  But 
his  punishment  was  just,  perhaps.  He  had 
meant  to  take  advantage  of  her  ignorance,  to 
let  it  be  supposed  that  those  brutal  words  which 
he  had  spoken  to  her  were  a  delusion  of  fever. 
He  had  meant  to  accept  her  love  on  this  false 
basis ;  but  fate  had  saved  her  from  him,  for  she 
did  not  love  him  !  That  was  the  new  principle 
of  pain  to  which  he  must  now  adjust  his  life. 

She  was  out  of  danger.  She  was  getting  well. 
He  must  return  to  his  ordinary  existence,  where 
business  pressed.  He  began  to  go  again  to 
Brockett,  and  tried  hard  to  throw  himself  into 
his  work. 

The  small  success  of  this  effort  was  another 
blow.  Even  his  career  had  become  almost  a 
matter  of  indifference  to  him,  and  the  triumph 
which  he  had  recently  scored  in  that  direction 
proved  wretchedly  light,  balanced  against  the 
loss  which,  in  another  way,  he  had  suffered. 


DEAD   SELVES.  227 

Every  morning  he  went  early  to  Brockett, 
and  every  afternoon  he  made  a  visit  to  Rhoda. 

He  was  as  calm  and  cool  in  manner  now  as 
she.  His  kisses  were  as  chill  and  gentle,  his 
looks  as  merely  affectionate,  as  hers.  No  doubt, 
he  tdd  himself,  she  was  well  satisfied  with  him ! 
The  nurse  need  have  no  fear  of  his  exciting  her 
in  any  way. 


XXIII 

ONE  day  Fraser,  as  usual,  had  been  to 
Brockett,  and  had  come  home  toward 
evening,  feeling  tired.  He  knew  that  his  cus 
tomary  visit  to  Rhoda  was  before  him,  but  the 
strain  of  these  visits,  the  efforts  to  tune  him 
self  to  her  key,  were  so  difficult  to  him  that  he 
had  a  strong  shrinking  from  them. 

This  afternoon,  when  he  entered  the  room, 
there  was  a  change.  The  big  bed  was  empty, 
and  Rhoda  had  been  moved  to  the  lounge  in 
the  bay-window.  There  she  lay,  swathed  in 
soft  draperies  of  some  blue  material,  just  enough 
wasted  by  illness  to  make  a  passionate  appeal  to 
the  tenderness  of  a  man  who  loved  her. 

The  light  coverlet  had  been  thrown  aside, 
and  there  lay  her  long  body,  fine  and  straight 
and  beautiful.  Her  feet  were  thrust  into  soft 
slippers,  the  pointed  toes  of  which  gave  that 
look  of  being  delicately  finished  at  the  extrem 
ities,  which  her  long,  tapering  hands  also  carried 
out.  Her  hair,  parted  and  plaited,  made  her 
face  look  meek  and  mildly  grave,  and  her  blue 
228 


DEAD   SELVES.  229 

draperies,  though  they  heightened  her  pallor, 
gave  a  look  of  virginal  serenity  to  her  lovely 
face.  Her  toilet  to-day  was  soignee  and  dainty, 
instead  of  being  merely  thorough  and  neat. 
The  difference  was  due  to  the  fact  that  it  had 
beenjbr  the  first  time  directed  by  herself,  in 
stead  of  by  her  nurse.  The  finger-nails,  deli 
cately  pink,  in  contrast  to  the  blue- white  of  her 
hands,  were  carefully  trimmed  and  smoothed, 
and  a  soft  little  lace-edged  handkerchief  was 
crushed  in  one  pale  hand. 

As  he  came  near  and  stooped,  as  usual,  to 
kiss  her  forehead,  the  familiar  scent  from  this 
little  grossamer-fine  thing  penetrated  to  his  finest 
consciousness,  and  made  him  clench  his  hand 
with  a  force  almost  painful,  to  give  himself  a 
danger-signal. 

He  drew  a  chair  to  the  side  of  the  lounge 
and  sat  down  in  it,  assuming  a  manner  which 
was  painstakingly  casual  and  collected. 

' '  It  begins  to  look  as  though  Rhoda  were 
herself  again,"  he  said.  "How  nice  to  see 
you  really  dressed  and  off  the  invalid-list !  You 
have  had  a  weary  time  of  it. ' ' 

"Not  very,"  she  said,  gently.  "I  had  bad 
dreams,  in  that  long  fever-sleep,  but  it  was 
sweet  to  wake  and  find  they  were  not  true." 


23o  DEAD   SELVES. 

At  these  words  Fraser  winced  inwardly.  He 
even  feared  that  some  effect  of  them  might  show 
in  his  face  or  movements,  and  so,  remembering 
a  piece  of  advice  given  him  by  the  doctor  that 
morning,  and  being  willing  to  change  the  sub 
ject  in  almost  any  way  that  would  change  the 
current  of  his  thoughts  and  hers,  he  said  : 

"Rhoda,  the  doctor  tells  me  you  are  now 
well  enough  to  bear  something  which  must  be 
told  to  you,  dear,  and  of  which  in  your  soul 
you  must  be  glad ;  but  it  will  necessarily  give 
you  a  certain  shock." 

He  paused  an  instant,  a  sense  of  agitation 
seizing  him,  as  he  saw  the  sweet  inquiry  of  her 
eyes.  It  seemed  cruel  to  bring  up  that  dark 
subject  in  this  angelic  presence,  but  he  was 
compelled  to  go  on. 

"Tell  me,"  she  said,  wonderingly. 

He  felt  for  her  ignorance,  her  unconscious 
ness  that  he  was  about  to  lay  his  hand  upon  a 
spot  so  sore. 

"  It  will  hurt  you,  I  fear,"  he  said,  "  and  yet 
it  is  good  news,  Rhoda — blessed  good  tidings 
about  a  being  for  whose  sake  you  have  suffered 
much. ' ' 

Her  face  seemed  to  grow  more  densely 
white. 


DEAD   SELVES.  231 

"My  poor  child!"  she  said.  Her  voice 
shook.  Her  lips  trembled.  She  was  still  weak 
from  her  illness,  and  he  saw  that  she  could  not 
bear  a  longer  suspense. 

"Yes,  Rhoda,  your  poor  child,"  he  said. 
"Its,  life  has  passed  away  from  the  world  in 
which  its  soul  has  never  dwelt.  There  is  a 
belief,  in  some  Eastern  religion,  that  the  souls 
of  such  beings  are  kept  with  God,  and  that 
therefore  their  bodies  are  sacred  too,  and  they 
are  thought  of  with  more  tenderness  and  rever 
ence  than  any  others." 

He  was  using  all  his  power  to  comfort  her 
and  ease  this  moment's  pain,  but  she  seemed 
scarcely  to  hear  his  words.  Large  tear-drops 
filled  her  eyes  and  rolled  down  her  pale  cheeks. 

"  I  am  very  glad,"  she  said. 

The  pathos  of  those  words  and  tears  together 
was  almost  too  much  for  Fraser.  His  heart 
ached  with  tenderness.  He  bent  toward  her 
pityingly,  and  said  : 

"I  wish  I  could  have  spared  you  this  pain, 
my  poor  Rhoda.  I  bear  it  with  you." 

"I  am  very  glad,"  she  said  again,  but  the 
tears  came  thicker  and  faster.  She  hid  her  face 
in  her  handkerchief,  and,  pressing  it  down 
with  both  hands,  began  to  shake  with  low,  half- 


232  DEAD   SELVES. 

stifled  sobs.  Her  weakness  made  her  powerless 
to  resist  them,  and  she  gave  way  and  cried,  as 
simply  and  pathetically  as  a  little  child. 

Fraser  slipped  from  the  chair  to  his  knees. 

"  Rhoda,  my  own  child,"  he  said,  bending 
over  her,  "  I  know  you  are  brave,  and  that  you 
say  that  you  are  glad,  but  I  want  you  to  be 
really  and  truly  what  you  are  trying  so  hard  to 
be.  Let  it  make  you  only  thankful  and  happy, 
dear,  that  God  has  sent  this  release  for  that 
poor  child's  sake  and  for  your  own." 

"  I  am,"  she  said,  speaking  in  a  weak  whisper 
from  behind  her  handkerchief.  ' '  I  am  both 
thankful  and  happy :  but,  oh,  poor  little  thing, 
to  be  so  alone  ! — to  be  left  to  hired  nurses  all 
the  last  days  of  its  life  ! — to  have  no  one  to  go 
and  put  it  into  its  little  grave, — no  one  who 
cared!" 

' '  That  was  not  so,  my  Rhoda.  It  was  not 
alone.  I  went  there  every  afternoon  to  take 
your  place.  I  sat  and  watched  and  rocked  it, 
hour  after  hour,  and  I  followed  it  to  its  grave 
with  pity  and  reverence,  because  it  was  your 
child.  My  mother,  too,  went  with  me.  So 
now  you  cannot  say  that  there  was  no  one  there 
who  cared. ' ' 

She  took  her  hands  down  and  looked  at  him. 


DEAD   SELVES.  233 

"You  did  this?"  she  said.  "You?  You 
did  this  thing  for  that  poor  little  cursed  and 
blighted  being  to  whom  I  gave  its  wretched  life  ? 
Why  did  you?" 

"  Rhoda,  darling,  because  it  was  your  child, 
and  because  I  loved  you  so  that  I  grew  to  feel 
tenderly  to  it  also,  for  your  sake.  I  used  to  sit 
by  the  hour  and  play  the  little  music-box  to  it, 
and  rock  it  so  strongly  and  regularly  that  its 
restlessness  would  cease  entirely.  I  used  to  love 
then  to  look  at  its  little  hands.  I  used  to  hold 
them  close  and  kiss  them,  because  they  were  like 
yours." 

He  saw  that  his  words  gave  comfort,  and  so 
he  went  on  and  told  her  all  that  there  was  to  tell, 
thankful  in  his  heart  that  he  could  give  her  the 
solace  of  this  knowledge. 

"  Oh,  I  thank  you  !  God  knows,  I  thank 
you!"  she  said,  with  the  humble  gratitude  of 
one  who  has  received  a  favor  undeserved.  "  It 
soothes  my  heart  to  think  that  those  poor  little 
hands  were  kissed  before  they  were  laid  away 
forever. ' ' 

"Think  of  the  soul  and  not  of  the  body, 
Rhoda.  Its  sad  life  here  is  over,  and  now  it 
has  a  sacred  life  with  God." 

"Yes,    yes,"    she   cried,  eagerly.      "It   is 


234  DEAD   SELVES. 

sweet  and  good.  I  am  so  glad.  I  am  not  sad 
about  it.  I  don't  know  why  I  should  cry. 
How  good  you  were  !  How  I  thank  you  for 
it!" 

She  reached  out  one  slim  hand — the  one  on 
which  herwedding-ring  hung  loose — and  offered 
it  to  him,  with  a  smile. 

"And  to  think,"  she  said,  as  his  fingers 
closed  around  it  eagerly,  "  to  think  that  in  my 
fever  and  delirium  I  thought  you  had  been 
harsh  and  cruel  to  me  !  Oh,  you  do  not  know 

"  she  broke  off  suddenly,  covering  her  face 

an  instant  with  her  hand,  "you  do  not  know 
what  horrible,  blighting,  bitter  words  I  thought 
you  said  to  me  !  It  is  as  plain  to  me  yet  as  if 
it  had  really  happened.  It  must  have  been  the 
very  beginning  of  my  delirium.  I  thought 
you  were  here,  in  this  room,  lying  on  this  very 
lounge,  and  that  I  came  to  you  and  spoke  to 
you  with  love  and  tenderness,  as  you  had  spoken 
to  me  in  the  carriage,  and  that  I  saw  your  eyes 
blaze  on  me  from  out  of  the  darkness  with  a 
look  of  scorn  ;  and  then  you  spoke  those  words, 
— those  dreadful,  awful  words  which  I  cannot 
forget,  not  even  now,  when  you  are  near  me, 
with  all  your  gentleness  and  tenderness  and  ex 
quisite  kindness  to  me  and  my  poor  child.  How 


DEAD   SELVES.  235 

could  I,  even  in  delirium,  imagine  you  so  cruel, 
so  brutal,  so  unlike  your  great  good  self?" 

He  could  not  bear  it.  Wrenching  his  hand 
away  from  those  sweet  clinging  fingers,  he  got 
up  and  walked  across  the  room. 

He  knew  that  she  was  wondering  at  him,  that 
his  rough  and  sudden  movement  had  hurt  her 
in  her  heart,  if  not  in  her  body ;  but  it  was 
some  moments  before  he  could  command  him 
self  sufficiently  to  come  back  to  her,  although 
more  than  once  she  called  to  him  and  asked  him 
to  come.  Suddenly  he  turned,  and,  walking 
to  her  side,  looked  down  on  her  and  said  : 

"Rhoda,  suppose  I  had  said  those  words  to 
you  in  reality,  could  you  forgive  me  ?  I  have 
a  reason  for  wanting  to  know." 

"Is  it  to  test  how  much  I  care  for  you?" 
she  said,  with  a  certain  shyness,  though  her 
eyes  met  his  candidly.  "Ah,  I  care  much, 
much ;  but  you  do  not  know  what  those  words 
were  with  which,  in  my  dream,  you  scorned 
and  taunted  me.  I  could  forgive  a  great  deal 
— but  not  that !  A  woman  who  had  heard 
herself  so  spoken  to  by  a  man  could  neither 
forgive  nor  forget." 

He  did  not  answer,  but  turned  in  silence  and 
left  the  room. 


XXIV 

RHODA'S  convalescence  progressed  rap 
idly,  so  that  a  few  days  after  her  talk 
with  Fraser  she  was  able  to  drive  out.  At  first 
she  was  too  weak  to  walk  down  to  the  carriage, 
and  then  Fraser  used  to  carry  her  in  his  arms. 
Her  dependence  upon  him  was  sweet  to  them 
both.  When  she  got  better  and  was  able  to 
walk  alone,  both,  in  the  silence  of  their  hearts, 
regretted. 

There  was  something  more  than  the  mere  re 
cuperation  from  an  ordinary  illness  observable 
in  Rhoda  now.  It  was  a  more  brilliant,  buoy 
ant,  glowing,  redundant  health  than  she  had 
ever  known  before.  She  had  been  always  a 
pale  woman,  but  now  there  was  a  genuine  rose- 
flush  in  her  cheeks  and  a  new-born  radiance  in 
her  eyes.  For  one  thing,  that  sore-pressing, 
ever-present  burden  of  the  child  was  gone. 
That  was  much,  but  it  was  not  all.  There  was 
a  deeper  meaning  yet  to  the  new-found  delight 
in  her  heart,  which  made  her  bloom  and  radiate 
236 


DEAD   SELVES.  237 

beauty  and  sweetness  upon  all  who  came  in  con 
tact  with  her. 

Every  one  recognized  this,  and  as  time  went 
by  and  Rhoda  presently  appeared  in  the  Park, 
driving  with  Fraser,  her  extraordinary  beauty 
made.£  positive  sensation,  the  echoes  of  which 
could  not  fail  to  reach  Eraser's  ears. 

And  if  the  world  saw  and  felt  this  revivifying 
of  Rhoda' s  beautiful  being,  what  of  him?  He 
was  enthralled  by  it,  through  all  his  soul  and 
senses.  There  was  an  air  of  calm  joyousness 
about  her  which  made  her  seem  like  some  radi 
ant  creature  from  another  world,  come  here  to 
show  how  beautiful  and  bright  existence  might 
be. 

There  had  been  always  a  large  element  of 
the  child  in  Rhoda,  and  this  was  not  the  less 
evident  now  that  suffering  and  conquest  had 
made  her  supremely  woman.  She  seemed  to 
have  come  out  of  that  illness  new-made  in  body 
and  new-born  in  spirit.  The  old  self,  in  which 
she  had  sinned  against  her  own  soul  and  against 
others,  was  now  dead.  She  had  done  it  through 
ignorance,  but  we  must  pay  the  price  of  our 
mistakes,  as  well  as  of  our  faults.  It  seemed 
now,  however,  as  if  that  debt  was  fully  paid 
and  the  new  life  was  begun.  Her  lovely  face 


238  DEAD   SELVES. 

gave  evidence  that  the  dewy  radiance  of  its 
dawn  was  all  about  her. 

Fraser  also  had  an  old  self,  which  he  would 
have  rejoiced  to  count  as  dead.  He  looked 
back  with  a  fierce  revulsion  at  the  self  who  had 
committed  the  great  wrong  of  a  marriage  con 
tract  in  which  love  had  no  part, — the  self  who, 
after  this,  had  added  to  the  wrong  by  becoming 
engrossed  in  an  egotistic  life  apart  from  the 
young  creature  whom  he  had  condemned  to 
lovelessness  and  loneliness.  He  had  not  had  the 
excuse  of  ignorance,  which  was  so  strong  a  pal 
liative  of  Rhoda's  fault.  He  had  been  an  ex 
perienced  man  of  the  world,  and  he  ought  to 
have  known — in  his  inner  sense,  he  had  known 
— that  he  was  doing  her  a  wrong  and  subjecting 
her  to  terrible  dangers.  But  he  had  not  cared 
for  that.  He  had  cared  only  for  his  work  and 
his  career  in  the  world. 

All  this  was  now  so  changed  that  he  felt  he 
could  justly  claim  that  that  old  self  was  dead — 
but  for  one  thing  !  The  old,  the  lower,  the 
repudiated  self  could  not  be  counted  dead  while 
he  took  advantage  of  Rhoda's  ignorance  and 
allowed  her  to  believe  that  he  had  not  uttered 
those  terrible  words  to  her.  The  new  and 
nobler  self  could  not  come  into  full  life  until 


DEAD   SELVES.  239 

he  owned  the  truth  to  her  and  was  strong  enough 
to  take  the  consequences.  He  tried  to  believe 
himself  strong,  but  before  the  thought  of  this 
ordeal  he  was  a  coward,  and  from  the  possible 
consequences  of  it  he  shrank. 

So«t  the  laboratory  he  spent  wretched,  rest 
less  days,  while  Rhoda,  at  home,  was  contented 
and  peaceful,  with  her  dear  books,  her  happy 
thoughts,  and  the  companionship  of  the  old  lady, 
whom  she  so  tenderly  loved. 

At  night,  when  Rhoda,  with  her  faithful 
nurse  on  a  cot  near  by,  was  enjoying  the  de 
licious  and  strengthening  sleep  of  convales 
cence,  Fraser,  in  his  room  not  far  away,  would 
pace  the  floor  for  hours  at  a  time,  fighting, 
struggling,  wrestling  with  the  temptations  to 
keep  Rhoda  ignorant  of  the  truth  about  him 
self. 

Himself !  He  paused  and  thought  upon  the 
word.  What  was  his  true  self?  He  denied 
that  it  was  the  being  who  had  married  Rhoda 
Gwyn  for  money.  No,  no ;  his  present  self, 
his  true  self,  repudiated  that  one.  Nor  was  he 
the  man  who  had,  for  so  long,  considered  only 
with  a  cold  cruelty  that  unhappy  and  faithful 
mother  and  that  poor  blighted  child.  He  could 
call  God  to  witness  that  he  had  risen  above 


240  DEAD   SELVES. 

that, — that  his  evolution  from  that  dead  self 
had  passed  into  a  higher  thing.  And — to  come 
nearer  yet — he  confidently  and  indignantly  de 
nied  that  he  was  the  man  who  had  spoken  those 
brutal  words  to  gentle,  beautiful,  noble  Rhoda, 
who,  out  of  her  great-hearted  generosity,  had 
forgiven  him  the  past  and  turned  to  him  in 
love  !  No,  a  thousand  times  no ;  that  was  not 
himself.  In  this  illness  of  Rhoda's  he  had  gone 
through  a  discipline  which  had  made  him  turn 
with  horror  from  the  thought  of  that  self,  but 
the  new,  the  noble,  the  true  self,  as  he  believed, 
was  not  yet  born  until  he  could  confess  the 
truth  to  Rhoda  and  accept  the  consequences. 
This  was  what  a  stern  voice  in  his  soul  required 
of  him,  but  he  shrank  from  it,  as  a  man  would 
shrink  from  taking  a  leap  from  a  precipice  be 
neath  which  was  an  unfathomed  pit. 

These  were  the  thoughts  which  kept  him 
sleepless  and  wretched,  as  he  paced  the  floor 
of  his  room,  alone  in  the  darkness,  while  Rhoda 
slept  so  well. 


XXV 

» 

ONE  morning  Mrs.  Fraser  announced  that 
she  was  going  home.  She  had  made  all 
arrangements,  and  even  packed  her  trunk,  be 
fore  she  spoke  of  it,  and  both  her  son  and  her 
daughter  knew  her  well  enough  to  understand 
that  when  her  mind  was  made  up  there  was  no 
gainsaying  her. 

"  I  never  like  to  make  or  even  to  cause  a 
commotion,  my  dear,"  she  said  to  Rhoda. 
"You  are  perfectly  well,  and  I  am  not  needed 
any  longer.  There  are  duties  calling  me  home, 
and  I  must  go. ' ' 

"  But  it  was  only  this  morning  that  my  nurse 
left  me,"  Rhoda  said,  "  and  to  lose  you  both  in 
one  day  makes  me  appear  more  healthy  and  in 
dependent  than  I  like  to  be." 

"It  is  a  good  thing  to  feel  healthy,  my  child, 
and  independent  too,  as  far  as  your  nurse  and 
myself  are  concerned.  You  are  strong  enough 
to  dispense  with  her  care  of  your  body  now, 
just  as  you  are  strong  enough  to  do  without  the 
1 6  241 


242  DEAD   SELVES. 

spiritual  aid  from  me  which  you  had  need  of 
when  you  were  weaker." 

"  The  time  can  never  come  when  I  shall  fail 
to  need  you,  mother  dear,"  said  Rhoda,  "and 
yet  I  understand  what  it  is  that  you  mean.  You 
gave  me  the  greatest  gift  I  have  ever  received 
when  you  gave  me  my  ideal  of  myself.  For  a 
long  time  I  had  not  that;  but  how  can  any 
woman  live  without  it  ?  Judge  how  I  must  love 
and  bless  you,  my  own  mother,  for  this  precious 
gift." 

There  was  a  closeness  of  comprehension  be 
tween  these  two  women  as  they  parted  which 
had  more  of  union  in  it  than  there  was  in  that 
other  parting  of  mother  and  son. 

"  Duncan,"  said  the  old  lady,  with  a  certain 
sternness  in  her  voice,  "  I  want  you  to  take  care 
that  you  know  how  to  value  Rhoda.  Your 
mother  used  to  wonder  whether  she  would  ever 
see  the  woman  who  was  worthy  of  you.  I  must 
not  shrink  from  telling  you  that  I  have  come  to 
wonder  now  whether  my  son  is  worthy  of  the 
woman  who  has  consented  to  be  his  companion 
for  the  hard  journey  of  life.  There  is  some 
thing  that  I  do  not  understand  between  you 
two, — something  that  I  shall  not  pry  into ;  but 
this  I  want  you  to  remember,  Duncan,"  she 


DEAD   SELVES.  243 

added,  solemnly,  putting  her  slight  hands  on 
his  strong  shoulders  and  looking  up  into  his 
face ;  "if  you  fall  short  of  your  whole  duty  of 
love  and  service  to  that  precious  being — if, 
through  any  fault  or  folly  of  yours,  you  fail  her, 
or  coftie  short  of  the  utmost  man  can  be  to 
woman  as  husband  and  as  friend — your  mother's 
belief  in  and  affection  for  you  will  have  received 
a  blow  from  which  they  can  never  recover." 

His  eyes  fell  before  that  searching  gaze. 

"  Mother,  you  had  better  face  the  truth,"  he 
said.  "  I  am  not  worthy  of  her." 

"Then  make  yourself  so,"  she  answered, 
sternly.  "  Kill  and  crucify  whatever  it  is  within 
you  that  stands  in  the  way.  I  do  not  know 
what  it  is,  and  I  do  not  ask,  but  this  I  do 
know :  if  you  treat  Rhoda  fairly,  you  can  rely 
upon  her  generosity  to  any  length.  But  be 
honest  with  her,  Duncan.  Let  there  not  be  a 
remnant  of  deception  between  you,  or  you  will 
have  your  punishment,  and  you  will  deserve 
it." 

These  were  her  last  words,  and  they  echoed 
through  his  heart. 

That  afternoon,  when  she  was  gone,  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Duncan  Fraser  drove  together  in  the 
Park. 


244  DEAD  SELVES. 

They  talked,  in  low  tones,  about  indifferent 
things,  but  he  saw  a  wonderful  change  in  her. 
That  guarded  attitude  which  had  given  her  a 
sense  of  repression  and  him  a  feeling  of  being 
isolated  from  her  was  gone,  and  she  spoke  to 
him  cheerfully  and  freely,  though  sometimes 
with  a  little  look  of  timidity,  which,  in  con 
nection  with  the  stateliness  of  her  tall  beauty, 
agitated  while  it  also  charmed  him. 

An  hour  after  their  return  from  the  drive  they 
dined  together  tete-a-tete.  It  was  the  first  time 
since  her  illness,  and  here  too  he  could  see  a 
marked  change  in  her  attitude  toward  him.  He 
recalled  the  cool  aloofness  of  the  figure  he  had 
been  used  to  see  facing  him  there,  and  con 
trasted  it  with  the  sense  of  joyous  ease  about 
her  now.  The  gown  that  she  wore  he  could 
not  remember  to  have  seen  before.  It  was  all 
white,  and  there  were  violets  at  the  border  of 
the  square  corsage.  It  was  very  simple, — too 
simple,  in  fact,  for  anything  but  this  quiet  home 
dinner ;  and  for  that  reason  it  was  sweeter.  It 
was  made  after  the  graceful  fashion  of  the  Em 
pire,  and  Fraser  thought  he  had  never  seen  any 
woman  in  any  dress  look  so  perfect.  As  she  sat 
there,  talking  easily  and  with  that  wonderful 
change  of  look  and  tone  which  a  sense  of  sym- 


DEAD  SELVES.  245 

pathy  imparts,  his  soul  reached  out  to  her.  But 
he  remembered,  and  he  feared. 

When  dinner  was  over,  he  let  her  go  before 
him  into  the  drawing-room,  saying  that  he 
would  follow  her  when  he  had  finished  his  cigar 
and  paper. 

As  he  held  open  the  dining-room  door  for 
her,  he  looked  not  unworthy  of  the  fair  lady 
who  passed  him  with  a  smile  as  sweet  as  the 
breath  of  the  violets  wafted  from  her  breast. 

Fraser  stood  and  watched  her  until  the  lovely, 
light-stepping  figure  had  turned  into  the  draw 
ing-room.  But  still  that  look  and  smile  con 
tinued  to  haunt  him.  There  had  been  something 
in  that  frank  swift  glance  that  he  had  never  seen 
in  Rhoda's  eyes  before, — the  willing  acknowl 
edgment  of  the  love  which  was,  both  in  kind 
and  in  degree,  what  his  mind  and  soul  craved 
like  a  thirst.  He  knew  that  he  had  called  it  up 
by  the  gaze  which,  at  the  sudden  coming  nearer 
of  her  loveliness,  had  blazed  forth  from  his  eyes, 
and  that  very  fact  revealed  to  him  his  power 
over  her. 

His  cigar  remained  unlighted  and  his  paper 
unread.  Quietly  leaving  the  dining-room,  he 
went  to  the  darkened  library,  where  he  sat 
down  alone.  The  effort  to  think  was  a  difficult 


246  DEAD   SELVES. 

one,  with  the  insistency  of  feeling  so  crowding 
upon  him. 

What  was  he  to  do  ?  He  wanted  to  be  a  brave 
and  honest  man  and  to  tell  her  the  truth.  He 
had  tried  hard  to  bring  himself  to  the  point  of 
determining  to  do  so,  but  so  far  he  had  not  suc 
ceeded.  He  knew  what  he  ought  to  do,  and 
he  wanted  to  do  what  he  ought.  Beyond  that 
he  could  not  go.  Yes,  he  wanted  to  do  what 
was  right,  but  there  was  also  something  else 
that  he  wanted  with  every  nerve  and  fibre  and 
drop  of  blood  in  his  body, — something  that 
he  might  have,  if  he  only  let  things  be, — if  he 
did  not,  by  his  own  will  and  his  own  act,  pre 
vent  it. 

He  sat  there,  still  and  silent  outwardly,  but 
with  a  heart  that  leaped  at  every  sudden  thought 
of  her.  He  tried  to  school  himself  to  the  stern 
duty  which  he  saw  so  plainly  before  him,  but  the 
memory  of  her  voice  and  smile,  the  impression 
of  her  face  and  figure,  and,  more  than  all,  that 
last  swift  look  with  which  she  had  answered  his, 
appealed  to  his  senses  so  alluringly  that  his  mind 
was  a  mass  of  confusion,  perplexity,  and  agi 
tation. 

The  library  was  next  to  the  drawing  room, 
and  he  felt  through  all  his  thoughts  the  sense  of 


DEAD   SELVES.  247 

Rhoda's  nearness.  He  knew  that  she  was  there 
and  that  she  waited  for  him. 

Rhoda,  on  the  contrary,  believed  him  to  be 
still  in  the  dining-room,  lingering  over  his  cigar, 
and  felt  that  presently  he  would  come  to  her. 
She  ^vas  not  impatient.  The  delicacy  and  re 
serve  of  his  attitude  toward  her,  since  their  love 
had  been  acknowledged,  made  the  strongest 
possible  appeal  to  her.  The  newly  awakened 
consciousness  within  her  gave  her  now  a  shy 
ness  and  timidity  which,  as  a  crude  and  un 
developed  girl,  marrying  without  even  a  con 
ception  of  love,  she  had  never  had.  The  more 
passionately  aware  she  became  of  her  feeling  to 
ward  him,  the  more  contented  was  she  that  he 
should  linger  a  little.  The  joy  before  her  was 
so  bright,  so  blinding,  that  she  had  a  little  sense 
of  fear  at  its  approach. 

For  the  first  time  Rhoda  knew  what  it  was  to 
love,  and  she  had  with  it  that  maidenly  con 
sciousness  which  is  a  part  of  love's  delight.  She 
knew  also  that  she  was  loved  in  return,  and  her 
nature  was  so  simple,  so  utterly  opposed  to  the 
modern  methods  of  self-analysis,  that  she  re 
ceived  the  revelation  of  love  as  naturally  and 
unquestioningly  as  a  child  would  have  accepted 
the  arrival  of  a  thing  desired. 


248  DEAD  SELVES. 

She  felt  no  wish  to  hasten  the  coming  of  her 
joy,  but  she  had  a  great  longing  to  express  her 
self.  The  burden  of  silence  weighed  upon  her. 

Suddenly  her  eyes  fell  upon  the  closed  piano, 
and,  rising,  she  crossed  to  it  swiftly  and  sat  down 
upon  the  stool.  It  was  on  the  side  of  the  room 
next  to  the  library,  too  far  away  from  the  dining- 
room,  she  thought,  to  be  audible  there,  through 
closed  doors,  so  she  could  play  to  herself  alone. 

Feeling  quite  at  her  ease,  she  slipped  back  the 
cover  of  the  key-board  and  began  to  play. 

They  were  old  favorites  that  she  played, — 
fragments  which  she  had  often  gone  over  and 
over  to  herself  when  she  had  first  tried  to  pene 
trate  the  mystery  of  the  feeling  of  love. 
Through  these  strains  of  music,  tender,  sad, 
impassioned  aspirations  after  the  unknown,  she 
had  come  to  the  consciousness  that  the  feeling 
in  her  heart  for  the  man  with  whom  she  had 
made  a  mere  marriage  contract  was  love. 
Through  them  now  she  sought  to  realize  to 
herself  that  love's  full  satisfaction  and  fruition. 

Things  came  to  her  and  she  played  them, 
making  no  effort  to  comprehend  the  specific 
feeling  which  prompted  the  widely  different 
strains.  From  some  unknown  impulse,  she 
began  with  Chopin's  funeral  march. 


DEAD  SELVES.  249 

As  the  first  grand  chords  of  it  smote  the  silent 
air,  coming  deep,  low,  and  distinct  to  the  ears  of 
Fraser  where,  within  a  pace  or  two,  he  sat  in 
his  battle  with  temptation,  he  started  in  his 
seat,  and  then  sank  back,  vibrating  like  a  harp- 
string.  The  image  of  death,  supreme,  inevi 
table,  final,  seemed  to  loom  before  him,  putting 
its  fatal  hand  upon  all  life  and  love  and  joy. 
It  seemed  to  pronounce  his  own  doom ;  and 
the  verdict  came  through  Rhoda's  hands,  as  it 
was  right  that  it  should.  It  seemed  inevitable 
that  he  must  accept  it,  but  he  groaned  in  spirit 
at  the  thought. 

Then  from  the  hands  of  Rhoda  also  came  the 
sounds  of  that  second  movement,  with  its  clear 
gentle  melody  that  seems  a  smile  at  death  !  It 
had  always  spoken  to  him  of  the  supremacy  of 
the  spiritual  over  the  material,  and  his  heart 
seemed  to  throb  to  the  pulsations  of  a  new  life. 
Over  and  over  that  sweet  strain  was  repeated,  as 
if  Rhoda  too  found  pleasure  in  it.  Every  time 
she  played  it  the  strain  got  lower,  and  as  the 
sound  diminished  it  grew  more  keenly  sweet, 
seeming  to  draw  him  to  it  and  to  her. 

Moving  very  softly,  he  went  and  leaned  his 
head  against  the  door  which  separated  the  two 
rooms. 


250  DEAD   SELVES. 

During  the  moment  of  his  crossing  that  slight 
space  the  music  stopped.  Could  she  have  heard 
him  ?  Impossible  !  The  silence  continued  for 
a  moment  more,  and  then,  nearer  than  before, 
more  passionately  present  to  his  senses  and  his 
soul,  the  familiar  and  ever-loved  strains  of  Schu 
bert's  Serenade  pierced  the  short  space  which 
separated  him  from  Rhoda. 

She  played  the  opening  bars  very  slowly.  It 
seemed  as  if  her  spirit  as  well  as  her  fingers  lin 
gered  over  them.  They  drew  him  on,  until, 
with  stealthy  motions,  and  almost  without  con 
sciousness  of  his  body  or  his  act,  he  had  noise 
lessly  opened  the  door.  The  drawing-room  was 
thus  suddenly  exposed  to  view ;  and  there  she 
sat! 

Her  back  was  toward  him,  and  the  lights  in 
the  wide  room  were  few  and  dim.  Her  figure 
looked  the  merest  girl's,  as  she  sat  on  the  high 
stool,  with  the  folds  of  her  short-waisted  dress 
drawn  under  her.  He  could  see  that  her  figure 
swayed  slightly  with  the  rhythm  of  the  song  that 
she  played,  and  her  graceful  head,  with  its  knot 
of  hair  in  distinct  outline,  was  gently  bending 
too. 

Moving  one  step  at  a  time  and  with  motions 
of  extreme  caution,  he  drew  nearer  to  her, — not 


DEAD   SELVES.  251 

near  enough  for  touch,  but  near  enough  to  see 
the  outline  of  her  profile,  and  even  its  expres 
sion.  Then  he  sank  noiselessly  into  a  chair 
and  watched  and  listened. 

If  Rhoda's  playing  had  been  enthralling  to 
him  ^before,  what  was  it  now  that  the  spell  was 
subtly  strengthened  by  the  sight  of  Rhoda's 
face  ?  And  even  that  was  not  all.  He  now 
perceived  that  the  lips,  with  their  sweet  alluring 
curves,  were  moving,  and  that,  with  a  sort  of 
delicate  humming,  she  was  carrying  the  air  that 
she  played. 

For  the  most  part,  this  low  singing  was  word 
less,  but  now  and  then  a  short  uttered  sentence 
accentuated  it.  She  only  recalled  the  words  in 
fragments,  or  else  there  were -only  fragments  of 
them  which  expressed  her  feelings. 

Fraser  listened,  all  his  senses  tuned  to  their 
finest  susceptibilities.  He  took  in  the  vision  of 
her  beauty  in  a  deep  and  ever-thirsting  draught, 
while  his  ears  drank  their  fill  of  the  melody 
which  flowed  from  under  her  fingers.  But 
keener,  sweeter  yet  was  the  low  thrilling  sound 
that  sang  to  that  marvellous  music  the  words  : 

"While  I  dream  of  thee." 
She  sang  them  once,  and  then  twice,  as  if  the 


252  DEAD   SELVES. 

iteration  were  sweet  to  her.     His  heart  trem 
bled. 

"  While  I  dream  of  thee," 

she  sang  again. 

He  knew  that  he  and  no  other  was  the  object 
of  her  dreams.  He  knew  that  the  hour  had 
struck  for  him  to  come  into  his  kingdom.  But 
could  he  enter  it  as  a  usurper  ? 

The  music  thrilled  the  quiet  air  of  that  still 
room  where  these  two  were  alone. 

Suddenly  her  hands  fell  from  the  keys  and 
lay  upon  her  lap,  and  there  was  but  an  echo  of 
that  strain  and  of  those  words.  Then  the  audi 
ble  reverberation  passed  away,  and  the  echo 
lingered  only  in  their  souls. 

He  sat  profoundly  still  and  looked  at  her. 
His  gaze  penetrated  the  silence  as  it  had  not 
done  the  sound,  for  she  felt  it  on  her,  and  so 
turned  and  looked  at  him,  and,  oh,  the  joy,  the 
exultation,  of  that  look  ! 

He  knew  that  there  was  not  a  cloud  between 
them,  not  a  lingering  vestige  of  the  obstacles 
which  had  separated  them  so  long,  except  the  one 
which  need  be  no  obstacle  at  all,  unless  his  own 
act  made  it  so.  The  gates  of  heaven  were  flung 
wide  before  him,  and  nothing  but  his  own  hand, 
directed  by  his  own  will,  could  shut  them. 


DEAD   SELVES.  253 

Rhoda's  eyes  continued  to  gaze  upon  him, 
dominating  his  senses  and  mightily  threatening 
his  will.  He  got  up  from  his  seat,  took  a  few 
steps  forward,  and  fell  on  his  knees  before 
her. 

H£  was  there  in  repentance  and  absolute  self- 
abasement,  but  she  did  not  understand.  He 
had  intended  to  tell  her,  and  to  take  from  her 
lips  the  scorn  that  he  deserved,  but  she  thought 
he  had  come  in  a  far  different  spirit,  and,  lean 
ing,  she  laid  her  lovely  arms  around  his  neck. 
Then,  looking  down  upon  him  so,  she  smiled. 

The  all-loveliness  of  that  smile  and  gaze  was 
more  than  he  could  bear.  He  threw  his  head 
down,  till  his  face  rested  upon  the  fragrant 
draperies  of  her  lap  and  the  allurement  of  that 
vision  of  her  was  hidden  from  his  eyes.  He 
felt  her  tender  fingers  on  his  head,  as  if  she 
blessed  him.  She  did  not  speak,  but  he  felt  the 
voice  of  her  soul  speaking  to  his  soul. 

"Rhoda,"  he  whispered,  not  lifting  his  bowed 
head,  "  Rhoda,  you  do  love  me,  don't  you  ?" 

He  felt  the  pressure  of  her  hand  grow  stronger, 
and  she  made  a  motion  as  if  to  draw  him  closer. 

"Yes,"  she  whispered. 

The  thrilling  word  possessed  him  like  some 
spell  which  every  moment  held  him  in  deeper 


254  DEAD   SELVES. 

thrall.  With  her  touch  upon  him,  her  love 
about  him,  how  could  he  tell  her? 

"Rhoda,"  he  said,  lifting  his  head  and  re 
vealing  a  face  distorted  with  the  passion  of  his 
struggle,  "  you  say  you  love  me;  but  how  much? 
— how  much  ?  Enough  to  forgive  me  as  great 
a  wrong  as  a  man  ever  did  a  woman  ?' ' 

"Enough  for  anything,"  she  said. 

"Anything  but  this,  I  can  believe.  If  it 
were  any  other  ordeal  that  I  proposed  to  test 
you  by,  I  should  not  shrink,  but,  oh,  this 
frightens  me.  My  soul  within  me  fears.  I 
dare  not  tell  you." 

"Tell  me,"  she  said,  tenderly,  framing  his 
agitated  face  with  her  two  lovely  hands,  and 
looking  down  upon  him  with  a  sweet  strong 
smile.  "I  am  not  afraid." 

"One  moment,"  he  said,  in  a  half-stifled 
whisper.  "  Give  me  one  moment's  grace.  I 
ought  not  to  ask  it  of  you,  Rhoda — but  kiss  me 
once." 

She  bent  until  her  face  was  very  near  to 
his.  Their  lips  had  almost  met,  but  he  drew 
back. 

"No,  no!"  he  cried.  "You  must  not.  I 
cannot  let  you  give  what  you  might  regret. 
Oh,  Rhoda,  I  have  wronged  you  deeply,  but  I 


DEAD   SELVES.  255 

love  you,  I  adore  you  !  I  call  on  God  to  show 
you  this." 

"I  know  it,"  she  whispered  back,  "and  so 
do  I  love  you.  When  that  is  so,  there  is  nothing 
we  could  not  forgive  each  other.  Remember 
what^ou  have  forgiven  me.  It  must  have  been 
the  worst  of  all  things  for  a  man  to  forgive  a 
woman." 

"The  case  is  different,  my  Rhoda.  That 
was  not  you.  That  ignorant,  unknowing  child 
was  but  the  germ  from  which  you  sprang.  My 
mother  has  shown  me  that.  Knowledge  has 
come  to  you  now,  and  love  has  taught  you. 
The  old  self  is  a  dead  one,  out  of  which  the 
real  you  has  come  into  life. ' ' 

His  words  were  spoken  with  conviction.  He 
felt  their  force  so  strongly  himself  that  it  was 
only  natural  to  him  that  she  should  feel  it  too. 

"I  accept  that  belief  absolutely,"  she  said. 
"  The  self  that  did  that  awful,  unbelievable 
thing  is  quite,  quite  dead;  and  what  is  true  of 
me  is  also  true  of  you.  This  unknown  wrong 
committed  against  yourself  and  me,  it  was  not 
done  by  you, — the  man  that  you  are  now, 
whose  love  I  take  as  my  best  gift  from  God,  and 
pay  it  back  with  the  first  love  of  my  life,  whose 
hands  I  hold  in  mine,  whose  eyes  now  read  my 


256  DEAD  SELVES. 

soul,  as  I  read  his  and  see  that  it  is  true  and 
good." 

Under  the  power  of  her  words,  the  whole 
look  of  his  face  changed  mysteriously. 

"  Rhoda,  Rhoda,"  he  said,  "in  ray  heart, 
and  in  God's  sight,  I  know  that  what  you  say 
is  true.  I  know  it,  and  God  knows  it,  but  it  is 
almost  too  much  to  expect  that  revelation  to  be 
made  to  any  other  soul.  Rhoda,  you  are  right : 
/  did  not  do  it.  I  could  as  soon  bruise  and 
wound  your  beautiful  body  as  I  could  now  lacer 
ate  your  soul  as  I  did  then.  If  God  has  revealed 
this  to  you " 

"He  has — He  has!  Why  will  you  not  believe 
it  and  save  yourself  this  suffering,  which  makes 
me  suffer  too  ?' ' 

Her  face  had  paled.  Her  hands  were  trem 
bling.  He  felt  that  he  must  end  this  ordeal,  for 
both  their  sakes. 

"  I  will  tell  you  all,"  he  said.  "  Let  me  feel 
your  hands  and  see  your  eyes  while  I  do  it." 

She  clasped  his  hands  in  a  tight  pressure,  and 
turned  her  full  gaze  on  him. 

"Go  on,"  she  said. 

"You  remember  that  night  when  I  spoke 
before  the  convention,"  he  began,  speaking 
very  fast.  "They  all  applauded  me,  and  I 


DEAD    SELVES.  257 

knew  that  my  career  was  made, — that  I  held  in 
my  hand  the  power  and  influence  for  which  I 
had  struggled  so  long.  I  realized  this,  but  I 
felt  an  awful  sense  of  lack,  because  I  had  not 
you.  I  loved  you  more  than  fame,  more  than 
success,  more  even  than  my  dreams  of  helping 
on  my  race.  I  was  impatient  of  triumph  apart 
from  you.  As  we  were  driving  home  together, 
this  feeling,  which  I  had  kept  down  for  so  long, 
got  too  strong  for  me.  I  let  you  see  it,  and  in 
return  you  gave  me  one  swift  glance  through 
the  well-guarded  doors  of  your  heart  also.  This 
double  secret — my  love  for  you  and  yours  for  me 
— would  have  inevitably  come  to  a  full  betrayal 
then  but  for  the  stopping  of  the  carriage.  It 
gave  me  a  moment's  breathing-space,  and  I 
knew  that  my  only  safety  was  in  flight.  I  rushed 
off  to  the  club,  but  I  could  not  stay.  You  drew 
me  to  you,  and  every  other  force  was  powerless. 
I  hurried  back  to  you,  my  pulses  quickened  into 
fire  at  the  thought  of  seeing  you  again.  On 
reaching  the  house  i  flew  to  your  room.  You 
were  not  there.  I  searched  for  you  everywhere. 
I  could  not  brook  delay.  At  last — oh,  poor, 
Rhoda  ! — I  found  you,  by  that  poor  child's  bed. 
I  had  never  really  looked  at  it  before,  and  I 
loved  you  so  fiercely,  so  desperately,  that  that 
17 


258  DEAD   SELVES. 

made  me  hate  it.  Instead  of  worshipping  you 
for  your  angelic  sense  of  motherhood  and  duty, 
I  grew  wild  with  rage.  I  looked  full  at  that 
poor  being,  and  instead  of  pity  I  felt  a  mad  re 
sentment.  The  worst  of  all  was  when  I  saw  the 
little  hands  that  looked  like  yours.  But,  Rhoda, 
remember  this  :  I  carne  to  feel  only  a  great  pity 
for  that  child  at  last,  and  I  used  to  kiss  those 
little  hands,  with  thirsty  love." 

Her  eyes  were  still  upon  him,  grave  and  true. 
He  could  be  nothing  but  honest  to  the  death, 
under  the  influence  of  such  a  gaze  as  that. 

"I  was  wild,  infuriated,  out  of  my  senses," 
he  said.  "  The  brute  that  was  in  me  then  rose 
up  and  mastered  me.  I  rushed  down-stairs  and 
waited  for  you,  in  your  room,  purposely  to  say 
those  cruel  and  dastardly  words  to  you  which 
you — oh,  Rhoda,  Rhoda  ! — thought  you  had 
imagined  in  delirium.  It  was  not  so.  They 
were  true.  I  said  those  words  to  you  ;  I  looked 
at  you  with  such  a  look ;  and  I  must  pay  the 
penalty  !" 

He  wrenched  his  hands  away  from  her  and 
hid  his  face  in  them.  There  was  a  look  in 
Rhoda' s  eyes  which  he  could  hardly  bear.  The 
kindness,  the  lack  of  condemnation  in  them 
seemed  to  remove  her  too  far  from  him.  She 


DEAD   SELVES.  259 

appeared  to  him  like  an  angel  who  looked  at 
him  with  a  divine  charity  which  was  glorious 
and  sweet,  and  yet  not  what  he  wanted.  He 
was  not  very  human,  and  he  wanted  her  human, 
equal  love. 

Ft>r  some  long  seconds  there  was  silence. 
Then  he  said  : 

"  Rhoda,  I  ask  your  forgiveness.  Can  you 
give  it  ?" 

She  did  not  speak,  until  he  lowered  his  hands 
and  looked  at  her.  Then  she  answered  him, 
with  a  smile. 

It  was  all  sweet,  all  gracious,  without  a  trace 
of  any  thought  that  pained  in  it, — a  lovely 
human  smile,  that  yet  seemed  to  lift  him  into 
heaven. 

"Then,  Rhoda,  you  forgive  me?  It  was  too 
much  to  hope, — too  much  to  think." 

"I  do  forgive  those  words  to  the  man  who 
uttered  them,"  said  Rhoda  :  "we  easily  forgive 
the  dead  !  To  you  I  have  nothing  to  forgive. 
That  was  another  self  that  could  be  base  and 
cruel.  That  self  is  not  you, — Duncan  !" 

At  the  word — never  before  uttered  by  her  to 
him — he  sprang  to  his  feet,  as  if  it  were  a  sum 
mons  to  all  the  manhood  in  him  of  body  or  of 
spirit.  Catching  her  hands,  he  drew  her  up- 


260  DEAD    SELVES. 

ward  until  they  stood,  tall,  young,  erect,  and 
face  to  face.  The  consciousness  of  that  uttered 
name  made  Rhoda's  face  aflame.  Fraser  was 
very  pale.  He  spoke  to  her  in  a  whisper. 

"  Rhoda,"  he  said,  "  you  can  say  that  to  me, 
after  all  that  I  have  done?" 

"  Not  you;  it  was  not  you  !"  she  answered, 
whispering  too,  and  again  she  smiled.  It  was  a 
smile  of  perfect  confidence,  that  gave  him  sud 
den  strength. 

"  No,  no,  not  I,  indeed  !"  he  said;  "  not  the 
man  that  you  have  made  of  me, — for,  Rhoda,  I 
am  new-born.  Can  you  believe  that  you  have 
worked  that  miracle?" 

"/  did  not  do  it,"  she  said,  the  whispered 
tones  getting  lower  yet,  as  they  drew  imper 
ceptibly  nearer  together.  "The  power  that 
did  that  thing  has  worked  a  miracle  for  me  as 
well.  Its  name  is  Love." 

Their  eyes  were  fast  upon  each  other,  and 
they  drew  ever  nearer,  until  sound  and  sight 
were  lost  in  touch,  as  their  wordless  lips  were 
pressed  together. 

They  drew  apart,  their  hands  still  clasped, 
and  looked  again  into  each  other's  eyes. 

THE    END. 


Date  Due 


TAT      MO      74 


A     000  546  009     2 


